The Years They Don’t Give Back

From 2020 to 2026, I watched the quickened years go by; I kept asking time
What takes a life in pieces, then refuses to give it back?

A woman spoke of marriage, spoke of children, spoke of home;
I made a place for all of it. The promise did not come back.

Then a child was missing. I reported what I knew
to the agencies whose purpose, on paper, was to bring children back.

I waited on the offices, the numbers, the official voice—
but only experienced people in communities harassing me around, while the days kept slipping back.

I pondererd other peoples designs against my life and social security number. I learned to scan
a passing car, a stranger’s glance to camera & cellphone, the noise infront of and behind my back.

Harassment has its weather: pressure, rumor, consequence.
I named what felt like retaliation; still, no answer came back.

The cameras seemed to gather scenes and make a story out of me.
I could not see the whole design; I watched my own words invert and come back.

I spoke of children in danger; discovery opened doors
onto what we all knew tried to stay hidden. Then the questions and investigations circled back.

There were beautiful women who arrived with warmth—or seemed to.
I could not know whose wishes they carried, or what story they’d take back.

I went to jail on made up charges. The calendar kept moving from tick to tock.
A date crossed off is not a day returned; no cell can send it back.

In silence, I rehearsed the life:
new streets, new rooms, new faces, all the inordinary world held back.

Perhaps I’d meet a soul who wanted simply to be near me—
not as a part in someone else’s plot, but as our story, but as someone who came back.

Perhaps a powerful bond: the kind people name a twin flame, soul connection, or thankful for paths crossed
though even hope grew cautious when it’s watched and questioned back.

I turned toward my upbringing, toward the choices I had made,
and those made in my name before I knew to answer back.

I tried to better myself—not as proof to anyone,
but because the decades had taken enough. I wanted myself back.

A fake marriage promised, fake family, fake friends, a child reported missing,
a locked door, unanswered calls, and all the hours that don’t come back.

I won’t call every fear a fact; I won’t erase what I endured.
I know the cost in days, in blood, in sweat, in tears, in abused trust, in what I can’t call back.