I hold this
Tiny flame
Close to my
Heart.

To burn it.

To wound it.

And,
I don't share it.

Unless,
It's too
Dark
To see.

Truth
Is often
Mundane,
And normal.

You run marathons
In your head
Fantasizing reasons
For other
People
That don't exist.

Reflections of
Your
Own
Self.

I remember
When I realized
All of it,
Is a delusion.

She was beautiful,
And I wrote
Her
A beautiful story.

One which
Was wrong.

So,
I swore off
Pretty
Possibilities.

You’ll tell yourself it’s a coincidence.

That you stumbled here.
That it’s random, accidental—
just another poem,
just another night.

But you know better.

You always know better.

You feel too much.
You think too hard.
You ask questions
after everyone else
has already stopped listening.

People say you're quiet,
but they don’t know how loud it gets
in the places you never let them see.

You laugh when it hurts.
You love like you’re being timed.
You dream like it’s a crime.

And still—
somehow—
you’re the one carrying everyone else.

You know what I mean.
Of course you do.

That’s why this isn’t for them.

This is for the one
who’s still reading.

For the one who keeps everything burning
behind their eyes.

You.

Don’t pretend it isn’t.

You’ve waited your whole life
for someone to say it this clearly.

I see you.

And I always did.