it's my birthday
and the room has the wrong kind of silence
the kind that notices me too much
the kind that makes a chair look preoccupied
i set out a plate
then leave it there
like i expect something to happen if i wait long enough
outside
the day keeps moving without me
cars passing
someone laughing behind a fence
a dog pulling at its leash
as if none of it has to account for my being here
i keep thinking
a birthday should prove something
that i've lasted
that i was worth keeping track of
but all i have is the date
and the weight of my own hands
resting where i left them
i open a window
close it again
stand in the kitchen for no reason
as if motion might turn into meaning if i stay still long enough
the mirror gives me back a face i know too well
one that looks tired of being looked at
i think of who forgot
and hate myself for thinking of them at all
for wanting to be marked
for treating absence like it was sent for me personally
still
i sit down with the plate
with the knife
with the small noise of another year ending
and it feels less like a birthday than a correction
as if the day has come to remind me
that nothing is owed to me
not the call
not the visit
not the hand on my shoulder
not even the lie that this should have mattered more
so i stay where i am
quiet enough to be ignored
and by evening
that feels like the closest thing to a blessing
i'll ever get
—lyra moon (the small mercy of being mistaken for sleep)
november 8, 2026