I knocked with open palms, not fists,
brought blueprints where they wanted lists,
spoke in frequencies they couldn’t parse,
mapped constellations, they saw sparse
and scattered dots upon a wall.
They built the door. I built the hall.
They said: too much, then said: not quite,
said slow it down, said bring more light,
said what exactly are you trying to say
while filing my translations away
in cabinets marked pending review.
I was fluent in languages no one knew
they needed yet.
The architects who laid the floor
I walked on had never walked before
a mind like mine in the blueprints room.
They named my frequency too much, too soon,
called my signal interference, noise,
mistook precision for too many words,
mistook silence for having nothing to say.
I was saying everything.
Every day.
There is a particular loneliness
reserved for people who see the seams
in things, the load-bearing walls inside
the conversations no one else is having,
who reach for the door with good intent
and watch the room decide
the reaching was the threat.
I lived in a world where the brains
who made the world
didn’t see me.
Because seeing me would have required them
to revise something
they had already decided
was finished.
The door was never locked.
They just kept building walls
around it, calling the walls standards,
calling the standards merit,
calling the merit obvious,
never asking who had written
the definition of obvious,
or why it fit them
so precisely.
I kept knocking.
Not to be let in.
To prove the room existed.
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