Outside the frame
Hmmmmm 😔
At the table, laughter rings
Names called out — but never mine.
Plates are passed, stories shared,
I'm the empty chair in plain sight.
Same blood, different count.
Holidays come with pictures I’m not in.
Group chats buzz without my name,
"Family" said like a door closing.
I learned to swallow my voice
So the silence wouldn't echo.
Smiled so hard my cheeks forgot
What it means to be chosen.
It shouldn't hurt this much —
To be unseen by the ones
Who taught you the word "home."
Yet here I am, watching from the hallway,
Wondering what I did wrong
To be family, but not _theirs_.
Some nights I carry it quiet,
Other nights it drags me down.
All I know: absence has weight,
And I'm tired of being the ghost
At a feast I was born to.
I rehearse reasons in my head
Why my name slips through the cracks.
Was I too loud? Too quiet? Too me?
The answers never show up,
Only the ache that does.
I watch them through glass —
Birthdays toasted, trips planned,
Decisions made in rooms
Where my chair was never pulled out.
I clap from a distance
So I don’t ruin the photo again.
Some days I pretend I don’t care,
That being on the outside keeps me safe.
But nights tell the truth:
It’s cold out here, and I’m tired
Of mistaking distance for peace.
Still, I haven’t stopped hoping
That one day the door stays open
Long enough for me to walk through
Without shrinking first.
Until then, I carry myself
The way I wish they would —
Gently, wholly, without apology.
So I’ll stop pressing my face to the window,
Stop memorizing who looks back.
If home is where they count you,
Then I’ll start the counting myself.
One: my breath, still here.
Two: my heart, still trying.
Three: my name, spoken by me
Until it doesn’t shake anymore.
Maybe family isn’t just blood
But the hands that reach back
When you’re falling.
I’m learning to be my own.
And if they ever notice the empty chair,
They’ll find it’s not empty now —
I filled it with myself.
No apology. No permission.
I started keeping my own calendar,
Marking days they forgot to save for me.
Birthdays with one candle,
Lit by my own breath.
I got good at celebrating alone
So the quiet wouldn’t sound like rejection.
I hear them say “family first”
And wonder which version of family
Made the rules, and who handed out
The invitations I never got.
I stopped asking why.
“Why” is a room with no door
And I’ve been knocking for years.
But here’s what I’m learning slow:
Being outside the frame
Means I see the whole picture.
I see who’s missing, who’s hurting,
Who else is pressed against glass
Waiting to be let in.
So I’ll build my table.
Smaller, maybe. Unsteady at first.
But every chair has a name,
And mine is carved in deep.
No one eats in silence here.
No one has to earn a seat.
And if they ever look past the frame
And wonder where I went —
I’m not gone. I’m just home.
Finally.
I used to collect their excuses
Like pressed flowers in a book.
“Too busy.” “Didn’t think.” “Next time.”
Dead things, all of them.
Pretty only if you don’t remember
How they wilted in your hands.
I stopped sending first texts
Just to watch my phone stay dark.
Stopped saving them slices of my life
When they never asked how it tasted.
It’s strange, grieving people
Who are still at the other end of the street.
Some nights I dream I’m back at the table,
Fork in hand, laughter real.
I wake up with my mouth full of nothing
And a chest that remembers
What belonging used to feel like
Before it learned to leave.
But I’m done shrinking to fit
Inside a picture that was cropped
Before I even arrived.
The frame was never mine.
The wall was never mine.
The house was — but only in name.
So I’m painting my own walls now.
Messy. Loud. Colors they wouldn’t choose.
There’s space here for all of me,
Not just the quiet parts
That made them comfortable.
I don’t hate them. That’s the worst part.
Hate would be easier to carry.
This is heavier — love with nowhere to go,
Knocking on doors that know my voice
And choose not to answer.
So I’m leaving the love on the porch.
No note. No waiting.
If they find it, they find it.
If not, the rain will take it.
Either way, my hands are empty now.
And empty hands can build.
I’m not waiting for an invite
To my own life anymore.
I RSVP’d to myself.
Showed up in clothes I like,
With stories I don’t have to edit,
And people who say my name
Like it’s something worth remembering.
Maybe one day they’ll widen the frame.
Maybe they won’t.
I’ve stopped measuring my worth
By the size of their picture.
Outside the frame is cold, yes.
But it’s also open.
And out here, I can finally
Stand up straight.
B