I write because I cannot speak
the way the world expects of me.
My voice, when needed, hides away—
my thoughts choose ink, not things to say.

I’m sorry if my silence hurt,
if absence felt like something worse.
It wasn’t you—it’s just my way
to sit with thoughts I can’t convey.

Not everyone is born to talk;
some of us just quietly walk
through pages, poems, unsent letters—
trying to make the silence better.

So here it is, my truest line:
I care. I do. I’ve all this time.
If I went quiet, please just know—
I only speak the way I know.