Around a trusted few
I let my walls down,

I silence the harsh voices in my head
to share with them, unfiltered,
my stories, not yet said

So when you tell me after
that my voice is too intense
That my stories were too long
and my emotions too immense

I wonder why I spoke at all
If only to be too much
I wonder if you care at all
to hear my thoughts untouched

I know I’m loud and spirited too
but I thought I could be myself
around you

I thought you liked me as I am
I thought you’d listen to my stories,
I thought you’d understand

Like cold water that makes your skin tingle,
And the shining rocks that hold it,
Like the strength of tiny waves that drag you to dream (to live),
In your waterfall, you heard me.

And your sweet touch on my burns set me aflame,
And your hands awakened in me what I thought was dead.
And my tongue grew again, after years of having cut it with torment,
And you showed me the sky, you showed me the uncertain.

And I began to speak.
And I spoke and spoke so much that my heart grew tired and my words ran out,
Yet still, you listened.
And you were so bold, so harsh, so kind,
So difficult, so sad, so tender,
So cold, so fresh, so you—
That I created a dictionary just to compose words in your name,
And I started with the word “waterfall,”
And I sank into you.

I like how you listen.

I call upon my brother,
but he does not hear my plea.

So I call upon my sister—
to find that neither does she.

So I write a little note,
to myself and to my soul,
on parchment not quite yet turned yellow,

with the thought that maybe,
once it does,
I will remember to remind myself—
to care for those a bit younger.