tallysipsup

I sat there watching you, waiting for something that never came. You kept your eyes down, stirring your coffee like it was the most interesting thing in the world. The rain outside made everything feel slower, heavier. I wanted to say something, anything, but I already knew how this would end. It always ends the same way—quiet, drawn out, like a song that plays too long after everyone’s left the room. You didn’t even look up when I stood to leave. Guess that was my answer.

sometimes i wonder if i’m just a collection of things i’ve consumed—songs that made my chest ache, movies that made my skin crawl, words i’ve repeated so many times they don’t feel like mine anymore. if you peel everything away, what’s left?

i’ve tried to meet myself before. sat in front of a mirror and stared until my face looked unfamiliar. listened to silence, waiting to hear my own thoughts, but they were always someone else’s voice, an echo of something i read, something i heard in a song at 2am.

but maybe that’s okay. maybe we’re all stitched together from the things that made us feel something. maybe the real “me” isn’t a singular truth but a collage—raw, messy, unfinished. maybe that’s what makes us human.

or maybe i’m still lost.