wordsikeptquietly

[wordsikeptquietly]

Empty Hands

They come to me when their night gets cold.

Spilling out stories that their own chests can’t seem to hold.

And I just sit there. Listening.

Patching up their fractures, mending their pain,

while my own world keeps drowning in the exact same rain.

Everybody leans.

Everybody leans the second they start to break,

looking at me like I’m the bedrock, like I’m the ground that could never shake.

But nobody stops to ask what it costs to stay.

Nobody counts the price of carrying storms... that were never mine to save.

Because I am tired.

I am so tired of being everybody’s medicine,

when I can’t even heal the wreckage that I am standing in.

They pour their chaos, their venom, their grief into these empty hands,

and then they walk away, leaving me bleeding right where I stand.

I am holding up entire worlds that were never mine to bear.

Losing pieces of myself just trying to decode their signs, trying to care.

They call me "strong."

But "strong" is just the word they use so they don’t have to see

that this weight is slowly, quietly... burying me.

I got so good at camouflaging my own cracks.

Always giving pieces of me away, never asking for a single thing back.

Playing the healer. Playing the guide. Playing the saint.

While my own demons grow well-fed on the inside.

"You’re the only one who understands," they say.

So I lock my jaw, I swallow my breath, and I stay.

But understanding doesn’t make me whole.

It just drills deeper holes inside my own soul.

And then... the room goes quiet.

When the noise fades out and everybody is gone.

I am left alone with the weight of all their shadows...

and absolutely nowhere to put them down.

Just me. Everybody medicine.

With empty hands, a crowded mind,

and a weight that is slowly... burying me.

[wordsikeptquietly]

"Empty Hands"

They call me late when the night gets cold,

spillin’ out stories that they can’t hold.

I sit there listening, patching their pain,

while mine keeps drowning in the same rain.

Everybody leans when they start to break,

like I’m the ground that don’t ever shake.

But nobody asks what it costs to stay,

carryin’ storms that ain’t mine to save.

I’m tired of being everybody’s medicine,

when I can’t even heal the mess I’m in.

They pour their pain in these empty hands,

then leave me bleeding where I stand.

I’m holdin’ worlds that were never mine,

losin’ myself tryna read their signs.

They call me strong, but they never see

this weight is slowly burying me.

Got so good at hiding all my cracks,

always givin’ more, never askin’ back.

Playin’ the healer, playin’ the guide,

while my own demons grow inside.

They say, “you’re the only one who understands,”

so I stay and listen, do all I can.

But understanding doesn’t make me whole,

it just adds more holes inside my soul.

And when the room goes silent,

when everybody’s gone,

I’m left with all their shadows

and nowhere to put ‘em down.

I’m tired of being everybody’s medicine,

when I can’t even heal the mess I’m in.

They pour their pain in these empty hands,

then leave me bleeding where I stand.

I’m holdin’ worlds that were never mine,

losin’ myself tryna read their signs.

They call me strong, but they never see

this weight is slowly burying me.

[wordsikeptquietly]

"Empty Hands"

They call me late when the night gets cold,

spillin’ out stories that they can’t hold.

I sit there listening, patching their pain,

while mine keeps drowning in the same rain.

Everybody leans when they start to break,

like I’m the ground that don’t ever shake.

But nobody asks what it costs to stay,

carryin’ storms that ain’t mine to save.

I’m tired of being everybody’s medicine,

when I can’t even heal the mess I’m in.

They pour their pain in these empty hands,

then leave me bleeding where I stand.

I’m holdin’ worlds that were never mine,

losin’ myself tryna read their signs.

They call me strong, but they never see

this weight is slowly burying me.

Got so good at hiding all my cracks,

always givin’ more, never askin’ back.

Playin’ the healer, playin’ the guide,

while my own demons grow inside.

They say, “you’re the only one who understands,”

so I stay and listen, do all I can.

But understanding doesn’t make me whole,

it just adds more holes inside my soul.

And when the room goes silent,

when everybody’s gone,

I’m left with all their shadows

and nowhere to put ‘em down.

I’m tired of being everybody’s medicine,

when I can’t even heal the mess I’m in.

They pour their pain in these empty hands,

then leave me bleeding where I stand.

I’m holdin’ worlds that were never mine,

losin’ myself tryna read their signs.

They call me strong, but they never see

this weight is slowly burying me.

[wordsikeptquietly]

“She’s Back.”

“She’s Back.”

She’s back.

The no-sleep, can’t-eat, don’t-touch-me girl.

The 3 a.m. ceiling counting cracks like they answer something.

The girl who disappears while still standing in the room.

She said she was doing better. Said it out loud enough to almost believe it.

But here she is again.

Same hollow stomach. Same buzzing head. Same weight behind the eyes that never turns into tears.

Food feels wrong. Sleep won’t come. Breathing feels manual.

Every sound is too sharp. Every thought is too loud. Every small thing feels like proof that she is too much.

She hates this version. The distant one. The irritated one. The one who pushes people away before they can notice.

She’s back.

The overthinking. The replaying. The what-did-I-do-wrong on a loop.

She doesn’t even know what triggered it.

It’s just there.

Like a switch flipped without permission.

She looks the same. Answers the same. Sits the same.

But inside it’s that old room again.

Dark. Airless. Familiar.

She’s back.

And she’s tired of meeting herself like this.

[wordsikeptquietly]

“Silence Where My Seat Was”

They say it’s better this way. Calmer. Adjusted.

But no one asked if I agreed to disappear.

I’m not allowed in class anymore. Not between bodies that breathe, whisper, sigh. Not part of it.

Even if I fall behind.

They decided I function better alone.

In a room. With creative assignments.

As if crafting replaces education. As if drawing can seal the gap of what I’m actually supposed to learn.

I’m not against being creative. I like making things. I write. I build with words.

But not as a substitute. Not as a solution to their discomfort.

I’m not a project. Not a scheduling issue. Not a reason to close a door.

They call it “support.”

But it feels like exclusion wrapped in polite language.

They removed my chair from the classroom without me standing up.

As if I’m not allowed to try. As if struggling is forbidden. As if failing is worse than never being allowed to belong.

What am I learning here?

That I’m too much? Too complicated? Too difficult for togetherness?

I don’t want to be special if that means becoming invisible.

I want to learn. Not be kept busy.

And maybe I move slower. Maybe I need help.

But help sits beside you. Help doesn’t isolate you.

Sitting alone in a room is not care.

It’s silence where my seat was supposed to be.