I spill too much of myself,
pouring secrets into open hands,
hoping someone will hold them gently.
I know I shouldn’t reach too far,
but kindness feels like home,
and I have been homeless for too long.
Perhaps it’s the ghost of being left behind,
of never being the first choice,
the favorite page in someone’s book.
So when warmth lingers for a moment,
I mistake it for forever.
I love too deeply,
I give too much,
and then
they leave.
The void widens,
stretching like an unspoken grief,
a hollow space no laughter can fill.
I want to be more than a fleeting thought.
I want to be the story,
the ink that stains a poet’s hands,
the face that lingers in an artist’s dreams.
I want to be seen,
loved,
kept.
Yet love eludes me,
a shadow I cannot grasp.
So I wear my joy like armor,
paint my pain in quiet hues.
I pretend.
I survive.
But, universe—
tell me this:
Was I made to wander alone,
forever calling out to a soulmate
who may never answer?