I’m not hiding.
I’m working.

This table knows my weight.
This pen knows my grip.
Every line costs something.

The room keeps talking,
but none of it’s for me.
I came to sit with what follows me home,
not what makes noise.

Light hangs tired.
The glass sweats.
My hands move anyway.

I write because silence isn’t empty—
it’s crowded.
With memory.
With time I can’t get back.
With names that still knock.

This isn’t poetry.
It’s pressure relief.
Ink instead of anger.
Paper instead of walls.

I don’t perform.
I document survival.

If something sacred happens here,
it’s not the writing—
it’s that I stayed long enough
to finish the thought. — Nelly Vee.