the things i buried under my tongue

maybe a drawer

maybe a backup brain

but i dumped a lot here

and some of it was supposed to stay unsaid

it’s mostly just…

lonely nights,

stuff i never sent,

the kind of thoughts that don’t sound normal out loud

→ poem — when i tried to shape it

→ mind noise — when i couldn’t

→ notes i never sent — you’ll get it

→ the drawer — for you, if you want

→ the quiet pile — it’s all still here

if you get it, you get it.

if you don’t, that’s okay.

this was never for everyone.

and i just felt it — the shift in the air, the goosebumps.

the warm summer breeze inexplicably turned cold.

sharp as ice, yet soft as breath.

it stung my skin, leaving unseen bruises.

everything hurt — not just on the outside, but deep inside too.

my heart pounded so loud i could feel it in my mouth.

i was dizzy, like i’d been thrown onto a rollercoaster mid-fall —

no warning, no seatbelt.

it was a dark, starry night,

but it felt like i’d just walked into the brightest room.

and when i finally saw those eyes, i knew why.

everything stopped. time stood still.

my brain took a hit.

it went numb. turned to mush.

i almost reached out.

took a step forward.

ready to jump into his embrace —

to let those strong arms hold me,

to cup his baby face,

to meet those deep brown eyes one last time.

i almost held his hand.

then the flood came.

memories — loud and sharp.

the happy ones. the highs and the lows.

the through-thick-and-thins —

until they turned into the sad ones.

the ones i’ve fought to forget.

enough to slap me awake.

who wants to remember heartbreak anyway?

do you?

in that moment, realization dawned.

i took a step back.

the only thing keeping me upright

was the wet, mossy brick wall behind me.

any other day, i would’ve stayed away from it.

but not today.

today, it was the only thing holding me up.

i put my head down.

pulled the hood over it — his hoodie, i might add.

my body slumped.

i became small. invisible.

i didn’t want him to see me.

not the awkward hellos.

not the pitying smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

not the fake courtesy.

even though i didn’t want it to happen…

a part of me still hoped it would.

it was a nostalgic reminder

of the time i spent my nights in his embrace —

straddling his lap,

his hands tracing slow circles along my back,

mine around his neck,

my face buried in the crook of it.

when those soft brown eyes truly searched for mine

across a room full of people.

when that smile was reserved just for me.

when those hands held mine — tight,

a silent promise to never let go.

yet here we are.

standing close enough to brush shoulders —

but as strangers.

it hit me like a freight train

of every word we left unsaid.

and then i did the only thing i knew —

i ran.

not literally.

metaphorically.

i crumbled.

i couldn’t risk losing anything — everything — twice.

be it him,

my dignity,

or myself.

so i let go.

gathered the scattered parts of myself.

if you were listening

you ask,

and i listen.

even when i’m unsure,

even when it’s inconvenient—

i listen

because it’s you.

and your words

matter to me.

but when i ask—

not as advice,

just a wish,

a nudge—

you pause,

tilt your head,

and say,

“maybe.”

and i already know

what it means.

you’ll do

what you want to.

like i never said anything at all.

it shouldn’t hurt.

but it does.

it shouldn’t be a

big deal.

but it is.

because it keeps happening.

because your words carry weight,

and mine just float—

easy to ignore,

easier to forget.

i start to wonder

if i mean less.

if i’m just here

to agree,

follow,

nod along,

and not express.

you don’t have to always agree.

but don’t make me feel

like my voice is optional.

like i’m background noise

in my own story.

some days,

i want to scream.

others,

i just go quiet.

and maybe that’s why

i’m slowly learning to say less.

because both

hurt the same.

-inspiration that became something else

the open door

i ask if you’d like to drift through a film,

like a paper boat on lazy water—

you say the water’s too still.

but when the tides shift,

you’re long gone,

splashing in someone else’s storm.

you seldom ask

what turned the light low.

i felt too much—

and you? not enough.

you called it a feeling, not a flood,

as if naming the storm

makes it human—

enough

to let it

drown me.

i wait for you to orbit me—

a silly, stupid game

of stars.

but your gravity

pulls elsewhere,

and as always,

i learn to dim.

i wish you’d hear

how my voice dims—

not from peace.

exhaustion, it is.

how i quiet

instead of beg.

strange, isn’t it?

for sound is

a sloth trapped in space,

and i’ve become

the silence itself.

you think silence

means stillness.

but mine is thunder

without the storm.

and still,

you mistake

my silence

for enough.

the ones you run to

feel like sunrise.

i stay

the flicker in the doorway—

not bright enough

to chase,

never dim enough

to leave.

and still,

i’m the porch light

left on—

a little too long,

for the night

you lose your way,

only to find

i was always

the open door.

—R