What They’ll Never Know

What they’ll never know

is what it does to your soul

to knock on a stranger’s door

and be welcomed by violence.

To sell under ceilings

that creak with neglect

and still find a way

to make someone feel

like they matter.

What they’ll never know

is what it means

to smile through the smell of mold,

to be offered sink water

from a Gatorade bottle

in a house that feels more like a warning

than a home.

What they’ll never know

is how fast your body tenses

when a man’s hand lingers

a second too long

and all you can say is “oh, we’re not doin’ that,” with velvet teeth

because safety

is performance

when you’re alone in someone else’s power.

What they’ll never know

is the sound of a boy slurping Ramen

like he hasn’t eaten in days,

like he’s starving for someone to notice

and the echo of his grandfather’s voice

sharpened into a weapon,

right in front of you.

my biggest sale.

They will never know

what it means

to walk into an attic

and see through to someone’s bathroom.

To tell a mother

that her walls are rotting,

her house is sick,

and watch her fall apart

because she already knew.

She just couldn’t afford to say it out loud.

management said I stayed too long.

They will never know

the room with one chair.

What it means.

What it could mean.

The evil that lingers in corners

that people pay you to ignore.

And now

I am in a building

where I’m told

my clarity is too sharp.

That I ask too many questions.

That I should wait

my turn

to speak.

Please.

I’ve seen what people hide

behind drywall and small talk.

I’ve walked into places

most of you wouldn’t dare drive past.

I’ve seen power abused,

children dismissed,

lives derailed,

and I’ve still shown up

with heart in hand.

I’m not afraid of this place.

I’m not afraid of any of you.

I have survived

what you will never know.

And I do not need

your approval

to know

I am rare.