the weeds wrap around my ankles.
nothing behind it.
i came here to not be seen.
and then i filmed it.
everything that touches me lately
has wanted something first —
an acknowledgment,
a response,
a version of me that already knows
what it’s going to do next.
the lake doesn’t.
but i’m still here making an image of myself
not being looked at.
i don’t know what that means yet.
— noa
