Voided

I prefer quiet things— paper that cuts without warning, ink that stains deeper the longer you stare. My thoughts fold inward, neat, precise, like letters never meant to be sent. I hold feelings too close, watch them bruise beautifully, call it intimacy when it’s really pressure. Love is focus taken too far— a gaze that sharpens, a silence that learns where you’re weakest. If you feel seen by this, don’t look away too quickly. Some poems don’t want readers. They want witnesses.