The One...

Everyone reads what I write, except the one it’s meant for. They never do. They never will. And I ask myself, do these words mean anything, or are they just a lullaby for a heart that forgot how to sleep? Maybe I write to lie, to pretend silence was a choice, not a sentence carved into me. I stitched my mouth shut with thread made of shame, the same shame they threw at me just for existing, just for breathing wrong. Now only the page listens. It takes my guilt like it’s used to it, lets my ache spill and settle like smoke in a locked room, And when I write, I’m dragging up the ghost just to bury it again, deeper, like maybe this time it’ll stay down. This isn’t poetry. It’s a body laid open. Every reader, a witness to the cut, to the blood, to the wound that never closed, except for the one who was supposed to see it.