Ghost Seat

I am tired of being the ghost seat
at this table
the warm body
no one quite includes in the room

I sit at the same kitchen table
every holiday
same chipped chair
with the paint rubbed thin
from years of lean

You pass plates over my hands
like I am a shadow
in the corner of an old home movie
barely seen

Everyone laughs at stories I told first
only now they are retold
with my credit carefully edited out

I watch my childhood walk around
in someone else’s mouth
while I drink my water
and swallow the shout

They ask me how work is going
then check their phones
before I even finish
the first half of a line

I could stand up
and set myself on fire
and they would just complain
about the smell of the pine

I learned early
how to fold myself
into father’s moods
and mother’s quick storms
without taking up space

Smile when spoken to
vanish when the volume rose
never challenge the pecking order
in this place

My dreams hung in the hallway
in crayon frames
that quietly fell
when new portraits took their hold

Now my victories live in closed notebooks
while you brag about a cousin
who once did half of what I already told

You never remembered my birthday
without a reminder three days late
from some glitchy site

But you never miss a chance
to praise a stranger
for doing the same thing
but louder and bright

You only call
when someone else cancels
when you need another set of hands
to lift or drive or pay

Suddenly I am precious
irreplaceable
until the job wraps
and I go back to storage
for another day

You speak over my advice
till it blows up in your face
and you come crawling back
with the same request

Then skip my number
when you share the success
writing your initials
on the front of the vest

I used to think
if I just kept turning up
they would see the lines I carved
in the ground just to stay

Now I understand
that some people only see furniture and favor
never the soul
they drain away

I am sliding this chair back
letting the wood scrape loud enough
to leave a mark in your ears

I am walking out
with my quiet rage
warmed just enough
to burn through all these years

If you want to miss me
you can miss me for real
while you stare at the space
where my plate once sat

No more half-hearted questions
tossed down the table
like breadcrumbs to a stray cat

I built that future
without this room
without this table
and I did it on my own