never the poet
“you talk about the poem
but not the poet
you underline the lines
but never ask
what made me write it
you say
“this one’s beautiful”
like beauty is accidental—
like it wasn’t carved
from a night i couldn’t breathe.
you quote my words
as if they were just words,
not the pieces of me
i bled in silence.
do you know
how many times
i wrote about you
without saying your name?
how many metaphors
were really
just masks
for memories of you?
you talk about the poem
but not the pain.
you smile at the softness
but never saw
the storm i sat in
to write it.
i guess it’s easier
to love the art
than the artist.
easier to read the wound
than to touch it.
but one day,
you’ll find a line
too heavy to carry—
and maybe then
you’ll wonder
who held it first.”