alone is when the thoughts get louder.
the silence swells, relentless, uncontained –
a tide that speaks in echoes
only i can hear.

each time, with self-deprecating blades,
they carve their way in,
whispering truths i never chose to believe
but somehow still wear like a second skin.

i try to find the meadow,
the dry spell in a rainy season,
but it always slips between my fingers,
like mist,
like sleep when i need it most.

there’s a version of me
that only comes out when the lights are off –
quiet,
familiar,
wearing my disappointments like a necklace
i never asked to inherit.

i collect failures
like pressed flowers
between pages no one reads,
fragile,
but mine –
like a name
i was never brave enough to claim.

i write not to let these thoughts escape.
i write to escape from me,
to trap the silence in syllables,
to bleed gently into the page,
until i almost remember
how it feels to be whole.