The Last Supper

There was a time I would’ve done anything to sit at that table.

To be seen, counted, chosen.

I brought stories and softness, timing and tenderness.

I laughed on cue. Held my hunger.

Learned how to shrink without making it look like suffering.

And for a while, that table felt like home.

Familiar in its mess. Predictable in its silence.

A round of drinks. A round of applause - for everyone but me.

But underneath the clinking glasses and casual nods,

there was always the same echo:

“You can come if you want.”

So I did.

Until I stopped wanting.

This is for the flights booked without asking.

The texts sent when something was needed, not when I was missed.

The half-hearted invitations, sent too late to mean it.

The group chats where I became the backdrop to everyone else’s spotlight.

The secrets they shared with me,

the venting, the unraveling,

all of it poured into my lap

but never offered back.

Because their anger toward each other was never about repair

it was about power.

And both were cruel in ways they refused to admit.

So I held their secrets like a priest in a burning confessional,

wondering when I’d be next.

What would I have to say, or do,

to be the subject of their next debrief?

I wasn’t invited to belong

I was invited to witness,

until I said something they didn’t want to hear.

This is for the nickname that softened cruelty into charm.

The debriefs about me that never included me.

The parties that happened whether or not I showed up.

The friendship that asked for my flame,

then blamed me for the smoke.

This is for the version of me that kept trying to be grateful for scraps

when she was always meant to host the feast.

I no longer need a seat.

I am the table now.

I am the host.

I am the invitation, the feast, the flame.

Let the masks come off. Let the illusions die beautifully.

This was my Halloween.

I’ve killed all my darlings.

Bon appétit.