The moment has stopped moving. My body hasn't. Shoulders high. Hands open. One thought says run. One says make them hurt. I let both pass without giving either legs. An answer gathers in my throat, ready before I understand. I press my palms against my thighs and let the sentence end. The ache climbs hard along my spine. It doesn't give my hands command. I stand inside the second after consequence. After the impact, I don't swing back. I don't vanish through the gap. I keep my hands where I can see them. I leave the exit where it stands. I hold my ground with empty hands. My right foot turns toward the exit. My heel lifts half an inch. My fingers fold against my palms; I open them before they grip. The answer crowds behind my tongue. I let it go without a sound. The ache stays hard beneath my skin. I set my heel back down. My heel meets the floor. The shaking runs its course. Something I set moving does not stop because I do. After the impact, I don't swing back. I don't vanish through the gap. I keep my hands where I can see them. I leave the exit where it stands. I hold my ground with empty hands. You don't owe me recognition. You don't have to turn and see. I won't send these words to follow or draw an answer back to me. I won't reach into your silence or translate it into mine. I am here beside the damage. I answer for what came from me. After the impact, I don't swing back. I don't vanish through the gap. I put my heel back to the floor. I leave the silence where it stands. I stay here with empty hands. Still here. Still hurt. Still answerable. Still here.
