there was no voice
to measure gentleness against—
no steady outline
of what a man
should be.
only a chair
that stayed empty
long enough
to feel like furniture.
i learned in fragments—
from glances,
half-promises,
hands that lingered
too long
or not at all.
i mistook absence
for mystery,
silence
for depth.
gave my trust
like something borrowed—
returned to me
creased,
or not returned.
some held me
like i was temporary.
some loved me
like i was replaceable.
the cruelest part?
not that they hurt me,
but that i kept searching
for something gentle
in the same hands
that taught me pain.
and still—
i kept searching
for something familiar
in them,
not realizing
familiar
was the problem.
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 9:36 PM UTC
there was no voice
to measure gentleness against—
no steady outline
of what a man
should be.
only a chair
that stayed empty
long enough
to feel like furniture.
i learned in fragments—
from glances,
half-promises,
hands that lingered
too long
or not at all.
i mistook absence
for mystery,
silence
for depth.
gave my trust
like something borrowed—
returned to me
creased,
or not returned.
some held me
like i was temporary.
some loved me
like i was replaceable.
the cruelest part?
not that they hurt me,
but that i kept searching
for something gentle
in the same hands
that taught me pain.
and still—
i kept searching
for something familiar
in them,
not realizing
familiar
was the problem.
Request permission to use this poem