she whispered...

Some nights, I sit with the ghost of myself.

Not the child I was.

Not the woman I become.

But the version that never made it through—

the one who stayed quiet one time too many

She doesn't speak

Just watches me with tired eyes,

as if to ask

why I left her behind in that room

when no one came back.

I want to tell her—

I didn't leave...

I just kept surviving

But survival is such a cruel thing, isn't it?

It turns you into something

half-alive

half-apology

and fully exhausted

People say things like,

"You're strong,"

as if it's a compliment

But they don't see the shaking hands under the table,

the way I rehearse asking for a glass of water like it's a sin.

They don't know how many versions of me I buried

just to sit in this chair, still breathing.

I don't want to be brave anymore.

I want to be held

without needing to earn it.

I want someone to come find me

before I write myself out of existence

just to be quiet enough

for the world to love me.

But no one knocks...

Not at this hour.

Not at this hush.

So I sit with her—

the ghost.

I let her lean against me.

And we share the silence

like it's the last soft thing we own..