They’ll never notice—
not in a place like this,
where sorrow is stitched into sonnets
and pain rhymes with grace.

They’ll never ask—
not when metaphors mask the weight,
when a sigh in a stanza
is just art, not ache.

They’ll never suspect—
not when every line is dressed in beauty,
when ink drowns the whispers
too quiet to hear.

They’ll never know—
not unless they read between
the spaces where silence lingers,
where the words don’t quite say
what they mean.