You ever feel like you’re talking
but no one’s listening?
Like you’re throwing words out
into a sea of silence
and they’re just sinking?
I tried to tell you once,
but you never asked the right question,
never stayed long enough
to catch the part of me
that was unraveling.
So I kept quiet,
held it all in,
but it didn’t disappear,
it just grew louder inside.
Isn’t it funny?
How the things we don’t say
get the loudest.
I could tell you all the things
you’ve never asked me,
but would you want to know?
Would you hear it if I said,
"I’m scared you’ll leave if I speak my truth"?
Or is it easier to stay in the space
where we pretend we’re okay?
I think we both know
the truth is something we avoid—
not because it’s a lie,
but because it’s a weight we’re not ready to carry.
So, we tiptoe around it,
dancing on the edge of the words
we’ll never say.
But one day,
maybe I’ll stop waiting for you to ask,
and I’ll say it all anyway.
And maybe that’s when we’ll finally listen.