Machines hum like they always do,
steady and certain,
but her hands tremble at the keys.
The blinking cursor stares back at her
like a silent accusation.
The room feels heavy.
Their voices low,
their glances quick,
like static she can’t tune out.
She wonders if they notice
how small she feels,
or if they’ve already decided
she doesn’t fit.
She feels their eyes
slipping under her clothes
every time she turns her back,
or leans forward too far,
or bends from her waist.
She wonders silently,
Is this the place?
for a girl whose past
harbors objectifying ghosts?
Her dreams of building something beautiful
feel cracked,
like a circuit that won’t complete.
She whispers to no one:
"What if they’re right?"
She lingers, unsure,
caught between staying
and walking away.
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