six months
after leaving home,
i returned for the holidays.
it wasn’t the warmth
that stayed with me
but the shortage of praise.

i didn’t expect it —
i didn’t expect anything,
just a friendly check-in.

i was surprised to learn
that the people i worked with,
part of the reason i left,
were so smothered
by their own bitterness
they wished for me to fail —
to run back home
after a few weeks,
admit the dream
was too silly,
too frail.

they didn’t hate me,
just my courage —
that i dared
to refine my life
while theirs
stayed the same.

busy in a world
i could call mine,
i remained gone
and let their silence
become my applause.