On Hold
An individual goes to Armenia.
A road opens, then closes its mouth.
Someone asks her
if she likes sex—
no hello, no context,
just weight dropped at her feet.
She answers nothing.
Later, she is ghosted.
Not erased—
suspended.
Like a tab left open
until the battery dies.
She slips on asphalt,
again,
as if the ground
doesn’t want her standing.
Her body learns the language of falling
faster than the language of welcome.
People look past her
with practiced precision.
She is treated like she’s on hold,
no music,
just silence looping.
She walks in circles,
confused,
streets bending without explanation.
The city never says no—
it just doesn’t respond.
A thought keeps returning,
quiet but exact:
I shouldn’t be there.
Somewhere else, there’s only pain.
Here, there is confusion,
and breath,
and the stubborn act of continuing.
So she keeps walking.
Not because she’s sure—
but because disappearing
would be easier,
and she refuses easy.