Yellow

He does not turn.

The yellow behind him burns,

but he lets it shout.

Lets it fill the room

without meeting its gaze.

He listens to something quieter

beneath his ribs.

Something older than language.

Something he never brings to the surface.

This is what it looks like

when softness grows teeth.

When a boy becomes a wall

because no one taught him

how to be held

without disappearing.

And still,

beneath the silence,

his posture sings:

I am still here.

Even if no one ever taught me how to stay.