some days it feels like i’m speaking a language no one hears.
like being quiet makes me invisible— or worse, mistaken.

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@silkenteardrops
some days it feels like i’m speaking a language no one hears.
like being quiet makes me invisible— or worse, mistaken.
i’d flirt but I'm too busy grieving a fictional character from 1874.
i saw a flower growing through the sidewalk. it didn’t ask permission. just bloomed.
no i can’t "just relax". i have to sit by the window with a book i don’t understand, listen to Chopin, and pretend i’m recovering from a Victorian illness.
at every family gathering they bring up someone new. "he’s handsome!" "you two would be perfect." "you’ll change your mind eventually."
they mean well. they always mean well.
but it’s strange, how invisible a kind of love can be just because it doesn’t end in wedding rings and instagram posts.
me: i want to feel alive also me: puts on a turtleneck. walks into a library. sighs deeply. as if I had just lost a lover in 1892.
i think my heart was made for slow things. tea that takes time. stories that don’t rush. people who don’t ask "why are you so quiet?" as if quiet is a flaw.
"come out of your shell" they say. but well, my shell has fairy lights and old books and playlists with songs no one else knows.
it’s not that I'm hiding, really. it’s just that this feels more real than loud noice and loud people and loud questions i don’t have the energy to answer.
i talk to myself but not in words. more like... glances at the ceiling, half-formed thoughts, a song i hum but never finish.
sometimes i imagine someone out there reading the same page as me at the same time. not next to me— just somewhere.
we’ll never meet. but i like the thought that our minds touched for a moment, softly. secretly.
Healing wasn’t loud. It looked like getting out of bed and brushing her teeth without crying.
She failed. Got up. Didn’t hate herself for it.
He looked in the mirror and didn’t flinch. Progress.
— 🦢✨
Go back for the version of you that no one came for. Hold their hand. Let them cry. Tell them, "We made it. I’ll never leave you again."
She had poems stitched inside her lungs. But the room only listened to those who yelled.
Some mornings she woke up and didn’t remember what she was trying to become.