Ghosts in the silence
I wake each morning with the ghost of yesterday,
Its cold breath on my neck,
Its weight on my chest.
The dawn feels like a mockery,
Another day to relive what I couldn’t forget.
I love you—
Not the way poets write about love,
But in the way a drowning man loves air.
I’ve worshipped the ground you walk on,
Held your every word like scripture,
But somewhere along the way,
Your love became a prison,
And I can’t find the key.
You say I’ve wronged you,
That I always do.
But your wounds are never alone—
You craft them from things I don’t remember,
Moments twisted by time and guilt,
Moments I can’t defend myself against.
You detonate the past like a bomb,
And I’m left picking through the rubble,
Wondering how I became the villain in this story.
You say, "No one listens to me."
But I hear you.
I hear you even in the silence,
Even when your words are knives,
Even when they cut deep and leave me wondering
If I’m bleeding, or if I’m already bled dry.
You call my darkness a choice,
As if I could simply cast it off—
Like an old coat, like a bad dream.
But this shadow is stitched to my skin,
It clings to my bones,
It is me.
And yet, I am always there for you,
Always the shore to your storm,
Always the hand that lifts you when you fall.
But in the stillness of my own pain,
I stand alone.
I have been your mirror, your reflection,
But now I am fading,
A ghost in your life,
A shadow of the man I once was.
My world spins around your needs,
My days are measured by your happiness,
And I’m lost somewhere in the cracks,
Between your joy and my silence.
I love you—
I do,
But I need to be heard.
I need to be seen,
Not as a villain,
Not as your salvation,
But as a man—
Flawed, broken, and aching to be whole.
But you never listen.
Not really.
You only hear the echoes that suit you,
The words that bend to your will.
And I am left here,
In the quiet aftermath,
Haunted by all the things I’ll never say.
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