It never shouts.
It doesn’t pound the table
or raise its hands to the ceiling.
It speaks like wind
nudging a loose leaf,
whispering sideways
when the road seems stitched shut.
Sometimes, it’s the hush
between your name and the echo.
Other times, it’s thunder
disguised as a tremble—
that pause before you say yes
to something terrifying and right.
It doesn't argue.
It waits
while you weigh silence against noise,
while you measure the unknown
like a fragile thing in your palm.
It keeps breathing beside you,
soft-footed, patient.
And when you finally listen—
when the world tilts just enough
for doubt to lose its grip—
you find your feet
already moving.
Not because you know
where the road ends,
but because something quiet
inside you
has always known
where to begin.
This isn't happening
Why would it happen
Today of all days
I want to pound the dash
Pound the table
Break something
It couldn't have happened
How can I do better
I feel like I can't and I won't
I would do anything so I don't have to
So I don't have to worry about doing better
Because to do better would be a disservice
A disservice to memory
I can't do better
I need to cry
But to cry is to fail and shout
"I CANNOT MOVE ON
AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO NOW"
it would admit
That it happened
And it hurt
But it did happen
And it does hurt
It will always hurt
But I can live
I can move on