I am but one man,
moving through the world
like something forgotten.
Not feared, not chased—
just left behind.
They called me a lone wolf
like it meant strength,
like solitude was a choice.
But I was never brave.
Just lonely.
Just left to figure it out
on my own.
My father raised his voice
and his hands—
storm after storm,
tearing through the halls
like I was the thing that broke him.
I used to hide in closets,
curled into corners,
holding my breath
like silence might save me.
The dark became a shield.
My own heartbeat,
my only sound.
He never hit me with his fists alone.
His words struck deeper—
called me too soft,
too needy,
too much of everything
no one wants.
And I believed him.
Even now,
his voice lives in my thoughts,
louder than any kindness
I’ve tried to collect since.
I went searching,
you know—
in the arms of anyone
who looked at me like I was something.
I gave pieces of myself away
just to feel wanted,
even for a night.
But they always left.
Or I did.
Because when they got too close,
I remembered—
that boy in the closet,
waiting for someone to open the door
and find him worth saving.
I never learned to stay.
Never learned to trust
that love could be soft,
that hands could hold
without hurting.
Only the animals stay.
They curl into me
without needing answers.
They don’t pull away
when I go quiet.
They just stay.
And that’s more than most.
Now I hide in new ways—
behind silence,
behind tired smiles,
behind a life that looks
just okay enough
to not ask questions.
But I’m still hiding.
Still aching.
Still wondering
if there’s anyone who won’t flinch
at the weight I carry.
Tonight, the quiet is heavy.
And I am tired
of being alone
in a world that keeps moving
without ever noticing
I needed to be held.
Call it weakness.
Call it memory.
Call it what’s left
of a heart that’s still breaking
for something
it never got to have.
