Misread

The giggling after stating a fact—

why was that funny?

It takes me back to a younger me,

the one whose words were always tangled

by those who thought they carried something more,

something sharp, something unkind.

But I meant what I said.

I always do.

No agenda, no hidden edge—just me.

Someone you either love or leave.

All I want is for one person to see me,

to hear me,

to hold me in the quiet

and say, I’m here.

Is that so much to ask?

I keep coming close,

but it never lasts.

Why am I always the one

people grow tired of,

the one they drift from,

like I was never meant to stay?