i grew up being forgotten.

a poem about leaving in the dead of night.

Photo by Ella Baxter on Unsplash

i have made a habit out of

leaving in the dead of night.

when morning arrives and i do not,

the people i’ve left ring me

to ask where i went.

i grew up being forgotten,

so it does not occur to me that my departure

is anything worth announcing.

why is it that people only notice me

when i am ready to move on?

why don’t they care to care about me

until after i am already gone?

☽