I sit with my feelings—
folded and neat.
You said something sideways,
subtle, discreet.
Not cruel, just a flicker,
a shift in the air—
but now there’s a tension
that wasn’t quite there.
No, I won’t make a scene.
Won’t raise a fuss.
I’ll just pass by
without looking—
but not without
us.
I’ll send a text,
with layers and lace.
A line that feels kind
but lands out of place.
A message that lingers,
then cuts through the blue—
and you won’t quite know
what it’s meant to do.
I’ll smile at you—
but not too wide.
There’s something
frozen just inside.
I laugh a bit longer,
but only enough
to make you wonder
what made it rough.
I need to feel
back in control—
to patch the rip,
to fill the hole.
To soothe the sting
you never knew
was stitched together
by something you do.
And maybe I know
it’s petty and small,
but I polish my silence
until it stalls—
until it hums,
and paces slow,
like a lion tamed
you’ll never know.
I’ll soften my tone,
though my words might bite—
sugar that stings
but sounds just right.
My laughter will warm you,
like sunlight through glass—
and vanish so quickly
you’ll question it passed.
I’ll post a photo—
perfect, clean.
Captured joy
in golden sheen.
“Look at me, I’m thriving now,”
the caption beams—
but none of it
is what it seems.
I rope the sun
to light my skin.
Because a photo lies
with a gentle grin.
And though it speaks
in golden hue—
it tells a thousand words,
and none are true.
I’ll like your post,
then drop a line:
“You look amazing. Truly—divine.”
“Have you lost weight?” I write with care,
a compliment
that isn’t fair.
Then I scroll on,
like nothing’s wrong.
But you’ll feel it
in my song.
I’ll open the door
with the softest grace—
but you’ll feel it linger
on my face.
A shade, a shift,
a colder tone—
you’re in the room,
but not alone.
And maybe,
you won’t know why.
But your joy will dim,
your shoulders shy.
And every time
you pass me through,
a part of you
will wonder too…
I say nothing.
I don’t accuse.
I don’t explain
what you might lose.
But still you’ll sense
what isn’t said—
a whisper brushing
past your head.
And when you look
the other way,
pretending you
don’t feel that sway…
Just know this—
and know it’s true:
I won’t raise my voice.
But I’m watching you.
J.N. Rose 