The Long Way Around

I learned early
how to carry things without handles. 

How to keep my hands busy
so no one offered to take them.
Because no one offered to take them. 

In stores, I walk the long way around.
Pretend I meant to end up here.
Maps live in my head—
jumbled, overlapped.
So do exits,
clearly labeled, flashing. 

If I need something,
I wait until the wanting quiets down.
I never share the need.
I call that self-control.
It works most days. 

I like people who notice.
Who move before I name the weight.
Who set things down beside me
like they were already on their way.
Who carry what I’m holding before I pick it up. 

There are moments
when help would cost you nothing.
Noticing and doing are different. 

I feel that. 

I swallow it. 

It teaches me
how much quieter
I can become. 

When I ask—if I ask—
it’s never casual.
My chest tightens as if a door
has opened somewhere behind me.
Walls painted calm begin to bleed.
Every old room listens.
Every old room remembers why leaving is efficient. 

You won’t see it on my face.
You’ll think this is easy.
It isn’t.
It’s practiced. 

But if I ask you for help.
That is a version of trust
I can never put into words. 

It doesn’t mean safety.
It means restraint.
It means I didn’t outrun the moment
or make myself smaller than it.
It means I stayed upright
with my hands still full. 

But if I ask you for help,
it doesn’t quiet the room.
It sharpens it. 

My body stays polite.
Still.
Agreeable in the way people get
when they are preparing for fallout. 

I soften my voice.
I make it easy to say no.
I offer exits
before you reach for one. 

Every instinct remains on the table.
Nothing resolves.
I don’t leave.
I don’t lean in.
I wait.