The Quiet War Inside Me

I crave—

but I wait.

Lips parted with silence,

hands curled around emptiness

like it might turn into something warm.

I love—

but I fear.

Because love, to me, is a trembling thing—

a fragile flame I dare not breathe too close to,

in case it vanishes like all the rest.

I hate—

but I need.

The ache, the hunger,

the dizzying ache of being seen,

even if only for a second.

I hold it all inside,

this quiet war—

where hope sleeps beneath my ribs,

and doubt kisses it goodnight.

Sometimes I think I was made

for a kind of love that doesn’t exist.

One that sees the bruises

and doesn’t flinch,

one that stays

even when the lights go out.

But until then,

I’ll ache in beautiful silence.

A heart full of verses,

too scared to sing.