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Poem
"You're hurting me,"  
I whisper,  
afraid that a louder voice  
might turn the truth to reality,  
my words could pierce your ego,  
turning you cold,  
uncaring.  

Scared of the truth. 
Scared that if I say it,  
I have to confront it—  
and I don’t want to just yet,  
clinging to hope  
that maybe it’s not true.  

"I've failed you again,"  
you say,  
and suddenly the focus shifts,  
now it’s on you.  
I breathe a sigh of relief,  
solace washing over me;  
I don’t have to face myself,  
at least not right now.  

How can I call out  
the part of me that remains indifferent  
to my own pain?  
And how does one begin  
to confront the shadows  
that linger inside?   

But this isn’t about me,  
I remember.  
It’s about you.  
I shake my head,  
pull myself back to the present.  

"You haven’t failed me, love, don’t say that,"  
I reassure you,  
"You're learning to love me,  
and until you do,  
there will be bumps.  
I will stumble as well,  
and I hope you can find some grace for me too—  
we're only human after all."  

While my words carry truth,  
they miss the deeper truth  
that lingers in my heart.  
I’m running from the inevitable,  
fleeing the reality  
that stands before me,  
bold and unrelenting.  

The simple truth is clear:  
you did not fail me;  
I have failed myself,
once more.
Trapped within my own cycle; one that I swore I had broken.

"I'll try again tomorrow,"  
I promise myself softly,  
holding onto the hope  
that maybe one day  
I’ll gather the courage  
to choose me,  
to embrace my own pain.  

Then I remember,  
this isn’t about me anymore—  
I need to make it about you.
Because I’m not ready  
to face myself,  
to confront the echoes  
that linger in silence,  
the truths about myself I’ve buried deep  
in the corners of my heart. 

"I love you," I say,  
the words trembling on my lips,  
the only truth I can summon,  
braving the silence of uncertainty,  
a gentle declaration that holds  
the weight of all I cannot say.
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