They say the burden is not mine-
that I am untouched,
until the proof is placed,
until the weight leans hard enough
to tip the scale.

But suspicion is not silent.
It has a shape,
a breath that fills the room before I speak.
Eyes linger too long.
Voices tighten.
Doors close softer,but sooner.

I carry what I cannot name-
the waiting,
the watching,
the shrinking space where I used to stand.

In this silence,
I am measured.
Not by what I've done,
but by what they fear I might have.

Still,I hold to the center,
where truth waits
without a mask,
without hurry.

Let them look.
Let them guess.
I remain-
presumed innocent.