The Eldest Blueprint
I learned the art of quiet long before I learned to speak,
a masterclass in standing tall when all the floors felt weak.
The blueprint of the family, the first to face the tide,
with every heavy standard neatly organized inside.
They compare me to the ghost of who I was at seventeen,
and measure every sorrow against who I should have been.
I poured my whole devotion into rooms that turned to stone,
believing if I gave enough, I wouldn’t sit alone.
I know all of your secrets, kept your history like a vault,
yet when the silence settled in, you named it as my fault.
You said you wanted peaceful days and walked out in the rain,
while I sat stranded, searching for the words to name the pain.
I can explain the heartache to a stranger passing by,
but look into the mirror and the phrases run bone-dry.
They say the ones who lack a home will seek it in the crowd,
but every crowded street I walk is cold and far too loud.
I am tired of the armor, tired of the steady spine,
tired of apologizing just for hurting on my time.
I never meant to break the room; I only sought a space
where someone listens closely to the girl behind the face.
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