Listen

Words are just a wrapper— Truth lives in the ache, Not in the noise we speak, But in what starts to break. We often make remarks, Wearing their grief like borrowed skin, But fail to touch the fire, That burns beneath within. "I feel alone," we think we hear— "I'm fearful. I'm not okay." We answer, "I'm sorry," Then turn and walk away. But somewhere in the underneath, Where real things tend to hide, If you'd just listen—really listen— You'd hear the breaking inside. Always armed with “I’ve been there,” As if that makes it right— "You feel alone? What do you mean? I texted you last night." Not every wound is waiting To be matched with one of yours. Sometimes the kindest thing to do Is keep your own behind closed doors. Their voice is not a trigger For your pain to take the stage. It’s not a prompt—it’s not a test— It’s someone else’s cage. No “me too,” no “here’s my version,” No jumping in to fix— Just stillness in the sacred space Where truth and silence mix. It’s not your turn when someone breaks— Their pain is not your cue. Hold your story. Shut your mouth. This moment’s not about you.