There’s something deeply isolating
about feeling
all alone
alongside someone tethered to your heart —
or instead, perhaps, your soul.

Late December,
when the trees are blanketed
in fresh snow,
the cold, harsh tone of a loved one
doesn’t quite suit the warmth
and childlike nostalgia
twinkling from the Christmas tree in my peripheral.

You “listen” but do not hear —
it sours the aroma of nutmeg drifting
all around me,
clinging to my skin like honey,
like a leech.

The tree lights—
blurred like the lines at which we rally words—
offer solace
I refuse.
As the edges of the room soften,
I welcome the distance.

Percussion blooms in my chest,
a flush born of connection
becomes a steady sting—
burning trails of fire beneath my skin.
A fire that does not warm,
but incinerates.
Does not nourish,
but devours.

If I pour my essence onto paper,
sprawl myself across the page like watercolor,
will I finally be relieved of the fear of
not being seen?
If my chest cracks,
will someone let the light in?
Will I be illuminated?

My lips are sewn shut, it seems.
I tried to break free —
But silence felt safer.

I stopped listening to her, anyway.
I didn’t mean to, but I can’t hear
her words
through the hammering in my head.

No one will ever truly understand you.

Blurred lights swell,
overtaking my vision completely
until I can no longer
see
or be seen.

No one will ever truly understand you.
Actually, that’s not true.
I do.

And so,
when the lights return to focus,
I will choose to see myself,
hear myself,
breathe myself.
I will gather each misunderstood fragment
and emerge
a mended and mesmerizing mosaic,
and I will let that
be
enough.