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...
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