I miss the softness of my soul
like you miss a limb
that still aches
long after it’s gone.
It used to rise to the surface,
warm as breath on glass,
fragile as moth wings
beating against porch light.
I could feel everything.
Too much, maybe,
but I was alive.
Now there is a quiet in me
that does not belong to peace.
It is the quiet of abandoned houses.
Of curtains stiff with dust.
Of a piano no one touches
because the keys remember.
I hardened slowly.
Not in a single storm,
but in small, daily weather.
A word withheld.
A truth twisted.
A door that closed
and closed
and closed.
I learned to cauterize tenderness.
To press flame against feeling
until it stopped bleeding.
Called it growth.
Called it wisdom.
Called it necessary.
But some nights
I feel her knocking
from the inside of my ribs.
Soft hands.
Soft voice.
Asking why I left her there.
The softness of my soul
was not weakness.
It was light.
And I smothered it
to survive the dark.
Now I move through rooms
like something half-formed,
all edge,
all echo.
People say I seem strong.
They do not see
the grave I carry.
I miss crying without shame.
Trusting without strategy.
Reaching without calculating
the cost of the fall.
There is a version of me
buried beneath scar tissue,
still tender,
still luminous,
still believing that love
does not always require armor.
Sometimes I press my hand
against my own chest
just to check,
just to see,
if anything soft
is still breathing in there.
And in the dark,
when no one is watching,
I swear
I can hear it.
::Faint::
::Fragile::
::Not dead::
Just afraid
to come back
into a world
that taught it
how to disappear.
Mar 2
Mar 2, 2026 at 3:53 PM UTC
I miss the softness of my soul
like you miss a limb
that still aches
long after it’s gone.
It used to rise to the surface,
warm as breath on glass,
fragile as moth wings
beating against porch light.
I could feel everything.
Too much, maybe,
but I was alive.
Now there is a quiet in me
that does not belong to peace.
It is the quiet of abandoned houses.
Of curtains stiff with dust.
Of a piano no one touches
because the keys remember.
I hardened slowly.
Not in a single storm,
but in small, daily weather.
A word withheld.
A truth twisted.
A door that closed
and closed
and closed.
I learned to cauterize tenderness.
To press flame against feeling
until it stopped bleeding.
Called it growth.
Called it wisdom.
Called it necessary.
But some nights
I feel her knocking
from the inside of my ribs.
Soft hands.
Soft voice.
Asking why I left her there.
The softness of my soul
was not weakness.
It was light.
And I smothered it
to survive the dark.
Now I move through rooms
like something half-formed,
all edge,
all echo.
People say I seem strong.
They do not see
the grave I carry.
I miss crying without shame.
Trusting without strategy.
Reaching without calculating
the cost of the fall.
There is a version of me
buried beneath scar tissue,
still tender,
still luminous,
still believing that love
does not always require armor.
Sometimes I press my hand
against my own chest
just to check,
just to see,
if anything soft
is still breathing in there.
And in the dark,
when no one is watching,
I swear
I can hear it.
::Faint::
::Fragile::
::Not dead::
Just afraid
to come back
into a world
that taught it
how to disappear.
I try to stay away from many of the common words in this writing, but I couldn't. So now, I cant think of a name that doesnt have Soul in it. Feel free to drop suggestions
