BREADCRUMBS

He left a trail of maybes
a half-smile,
a late reply,
a compliment laced with convenience.
You followed,
not because you couldn’t see,
but because you hoped
there was more beyond the crumbs.

You gathered them like offerings,

each one a flicker

in the drought of being seen.

But you were not made

to feast on scraps

from someone else's indecision.

You are not a puzzle

for someone to half-complete.

Not a pause

in another’s story.

You are the whole page,

the ink,

the hand that writes.

Your softness is not weakness

it is ocean.

It carves stone.

It doesn’t beg for tides

that only come when they’re bored.

And if he left breadcrumbs,

let him starve on the path he paved.

Because you

you are not meant to follow.

You are meant

to rise.

To walk the road

of your own making,

and never again

settle

for anything less

than a table set in full.

Emma Robinson: I’m 43, neurodivergent, and spend my days working in childcare and my nights scribbling poems. Writing helps me calm the noise in my head and make sense of the emotional storms that come with trying to fit into a world that doesn’t always make space for different minds. Poetry gives me a place to be fully myself, no filter, no pressure just real words for real feelings.