I should not take the blame Two steps forward, ten steps back, No matter the path, the light is black. I try, I try, with all my might, But shadows follow in the night.
Do not misplace the scars you bear, Or cast your judgments, sharp and bare, Upon a soul that’s not to blame, For all the hurt, for all the shame.
With silent walls and seeds of doubt. You bring the feast but leave me cold, A story left largely untold.
“Don’t speak,” you say, “Don’t let me in,” As if my presence is a sin. You say I shouldn’t be involved, The mystery of me—never solved.
An afterthought, drifting alone, The furthest distance I have known. The tears fall soft, the heart beats slow, Caught in a wind I did not blow.
You hate me—the echo rings so clear, A constant hum for all to hear. You hate me, hate me, in the dark, Leaving behind this jagged mark.
The silence stretches, wide and deep, a space Where my small ‘hello’ falls without a trace. I check my phone, a habit worn and true, A faint, false hope that maybe it’s from you.
The thread of connection, I’m the one who weaves, The constant opener, the one who believes That if I pause, if I just let it be, The silence would grow to infinity.
I map the distance, gauge the growing gap, And I’m the one who always has to ta Upon the glass, the careful, gentle nudge, To prove our bond isn’t built on a grudge.
I know your news, the triumphs and the strife, Because I ask about your life. I hold the mirror, catching all the light, And listen late into the lonely night.
But oh, dear friend, a quiet, simple plea Sometimes I wonder, do you think of me? When the dark shadows start to close me in, And my own battle is where I begin…
I wish just once, without a prompting word, The unexpected check-in would be heard. To see a message, a small, unsolicited sign, “Are you okay? How are things on your line?”
To feel the warmth of being sought and seen, And know I’m valued, not just a machine For comfort given, always on the call. I long to know I matter after all.
The black phone rests, a silence made of glass, A direct line across the choking air. My fingers yearn to seize its cool, smooth mass, To dial the number etched beyond compare. A fleeting urge to break the constant drone, To trade my heart’s loud drumming for a voice unknown.
Or I could message, try to weave a careful plea, A sequence of small signs, an emoji’s face. To message more, to bridge the digital sea, But leaden weight holds me within this space. I am a prisoner in my own inertia’s thrall, Unable to bridge the gap from thought to call.
My restless hands climb to my weary head, To twirl a strand of blonde around a finger’s tip. A pull, a slow release, a mark of tender red, Until the coil is tight upon my lip. A meaningless ritual, a physical display, Of all the mental turmoil that will not fade away
Inside, the engine roars, though I appear so still, My heart a frantic drummer beating out alarm. The air is thin, a breath against my panicked will, A visceral, exhausting, full-body harm. Yet, still life carries on, the sun’s indifferent track,
Oblivious to the silent crisis holding back. And so, I do not call. The paralysis has won, Against the simple, human wish to just connect. I hate the phone for what it has become, A terrifying chance of being now rejected
The pressure of potential, the awkwardness that lies, Reflected in the fear within my anxious eyes. I lift my hand again, to message in the night, But corrosive thoughts poison the touch before it lands: I am a bother, a shadow, an intrusive blight, A need that only inconveniences hands.
A self-imposed boundary, a powerful, deep chill, That freezes my desire and holds my actions still. This cease-less fight, the heart that pounds and strains, The hand that freezes on the tool for grace— The manufactured boundary of “being a pain”— This is the cage, the isolating space.
Anxiety’s invisible lock, a final, cruel decree, To watch the phone lie unused, and never to be free.
