It’s me again—talking to myself, writing to myself, because who else will listen the way I do? Who else will sit with me in the silence, in the chaos, in the aftermath of another argument that left me drained and unheard? It’s always me, piecing myself back together, holding my own hand when no one else thinks to reach out.
All I wanted was a little attention. Just a moment of undivided presence. Just listening ears, not a mouth quick to blame, to twist, to turn my words into weapons against me. But no—every time, it’s the same. Every time, I end up defending myself for simply wanting to be understood. Is it too much to ask? Is it so wrong to crave the simple kindness of being heard?
I bite my tongue. I swallow my words. I let them pile up inside me like unsent letters, like shattered glass I’m forced to walk on barefoot. And when it gets too much, when my chest feels too tight and my head too loud, I do what I’ve always done—I come back to myself. I sit here, with pen and paper, with my own thoughts, with my own company. Because if no one else will listen, at least I will. If no one else will care, at least I do.
It’s always been me. It’s still me. And it’ll probably always be me.
