from poetess' personal scrapbook
poem submitted to "Poetic Response" poetry contest, Nette Onclaud, sponsor, 5/31/2026
He doesn’t bleed where I see it. His wounds live quieter than that~ in the way he paces long after the day is done, mind spinning like a ceiling fan that never quite shuts off. He carries his hurt in overthinking, turning small moments into puzzles he feels responsible for solving. He carries it in irritability too~ that sharp edge that appears not because he’s angry, but because he’s tired of holding himself together. Some days he moves through the house like he’s wrapped in winter— emotional numbness settling over him like frost spiders on a windowpane. I gently tap the glass, hoping warmth will seep through. Perfectionism becomes his armor, each task a shield he polishes until it gleams just right. Relaxing feels dangerous, like setting the armor down might invite the world to strike again. But then in the softest moments~ I see the boy he once was, the one who learned too early to be careful with himself. And I realize he’s just trying to survive in the only ways he knows. And loving him means noticing the wounds that never maKE a sound.
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