I stand here,
quivering words,
like birds afraid of flight.

I look for faces
to hold me steady,
to say: yes, I see you.
I see you too.
You see me.
I see you.

But I must remain quiet,
not give myself away.
This cave I inhabit—
dark, close—
holds hidden threats.
I am a child,
buried alive.
Every sound is danger.
Every silence, too.

The room becomes cave,
stone pressing against stone.
I speak—
but the walls swallow the sound.
No echo.
No return.
Only erasure.

I believe only the broken
will recognize me—
the lost, the invisible,
the children who still live
inside grown faces.
They are the ones
who understand,
resonate…
who might listen.

I wonder—
who among the welcoming
carries the cold breath of exile.

I believed the room was safe,
that emerging from my shell
nothing bad would happen.
Tentatively, I offered words,
seeking compassion.

But trust itself was my undoing.
The cave offered no shelter.
My fear was not distortion—
it was justified.

Outcast is a verb.
It happens here and there
everywhere that seemed
welcoming.
One sigh,
one flinch,
and I am carried outside
alone in the snowfields
where no footprint holds.

A sound stirs in me,
though I spoke softly.
It ricochets through the cave,
Echoing through the chambers
returning louder than it left.

I never meant such volume—
but inside,
my whisper becomes thunder.
It hurts to hear.
It will not stop.
The echo keeps repeating,
long after the room has fallen silent.

And I wonder—
what triggered this?
What invisible tremor
turned welcome into exile,
compassion into coldness?