Unheard Cries

The Ones Who Never Stay

They come to me like whispers,
only when they need someone soft to lean on,
someone who listens without question,
who fills the silence they fear.

I am the quiet friend, the easy answer,
the presence that fades into the background,
like I was never there at all,
invisible in their world of brighter lights.

I see it in their eyes,
the shift when they turn away,
as if my words carry no weight,
as if I am less—too quiet, too strange, too small.

Maybe it's the way I stammer,
the way I fold into myself,
this shell of shyness they find boring,
this voice that barely breaks the surface.

Maybe I'm not their kind of person,
not confident, not charming,
not worthy of the dreams they promise each other
while I watch from a distance.

And I wonder if it's something deeper,
some karmic debt from lives before,
a force pressing down on me,
telling me I don't deserve the warmth I crave.

I used to believe in fairy tales,
in heroes who'd see past my quiet armor,
who'd find me in the shadows
and bring light to the dark I carry.

But life is not a story with perfect endings;
there are no miracles, no magical rescues.
In reality, you stand alone in your own silence,
you learn to bear it or you break.

Maybe strength is all we have,
the choice to survive in spite of the pain,
to keep breathing, keep going,
even when every step feels heavier than the last.

Some nights, I close my eyes
and dream of an end to this ache,
but something within me holds on,
a tiny spark, buried but still alive,

Whispering that maybe, just maybe,
I am more than the pain they left behind,
more than the emptiness they gave me,
that I can be whole, even in my own silence.

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