Expected to Continue

In the fluorescent hush

of closing time

I learned

how quietly a woman can unravel.

The schedule was printed in black ink —

bold, unmoving.

My name slotted between tasks

like any other object

to be lifted, arranged, returned.

Remove the stories.

Move the shelves.

Smile at customers.

My body whispered

something was ending.

The world replied,

Continue.

I have been continuing

since I was twelve —

when men studied my growing frame

as if it were public property,

when my mother’s voice

became a shield made of “look away.”

I have continued

through waiting rooms

where forms reduce miracles

and losses

to tidy numbers in small white boxes.

Two living.

One gone.

I carry them all

like books against my chest —

spines pressed inward,

titles unreadable to strangers.

They call this resilience.

I call it inventory.

And still,

when the lights flicker off

and the doors lock behind me,

I stand in the darkened aisle

counting what remains.