My Soul, Captured
A quiet storm churns beneath my skin,
not of thunder, not of rain—
but a hollow, aching weight,
a silence so loud it drowns me.
I hold my breath like a secret,
words rotting on my tongue,
waiting for ears that will listen—
but no one ever does.
Soft hands drift across ivory keys,
tracing the ghosts of songs unsung.
No one hears the way my fingers beg,
no one listens to the sound of breaking.
The scent of sugar lingers in the air,
a sweetness that does not belong to me.
I bake warmth into the emptiness,
as if cinnamon and time
could mend the hollow spaces inside my ribs.
Love is a whisper I no longer believe in,
a mirage in the distance, a cruel trick of the light.
I reach, I reach, but my hands close around nothing,
fingers curled around the absence of something
that was never mine to hold.
The road ahead stretches wide and endless,
a path I walk alone.
The fog is thick, my footsteps sink,
and I wonder if I will ever be found.
Even hesitation is heavy to bear,
even silence crushes like a closing door.
And one day, beneath a weeping sky,
the weight will either ease, or consume me whole.
Perhaps the storm will quiet,
or perhaps, it will be all that's left of me.
