I know the weight

 I know how heavy it gets,

when the weight of everything

you don’t say

starts pressing in.

So you make space—

by letting go of things,

of people,

of the mirrors that show too much.

You call it simplifying.

But I’ve watched it look more

like disappearing.

There’s a silence in you

that tries to keep peace,

but it builds

a tension so loud,

even your quiet can’t rest.

You draw lines

where you once built bridges.

You hand me the map

then set fire to the trail

right after.

And still wonder

why I hesitate.

I don’t want more

than what’s real.

I don’t want

what you can’t give.

But I also won’t be

the soft place you land

when you’re tired,

only to be erased

when the sun comes up.

I’m not here to chase you.

I’m here to walk beside—

when the path is clear,

when the weight is shared.

But I’ve been wrong before

for stepping in

exactly where you said to.

So now I’m still.

Not leaving.

But not bleeding either.

If you ever want

to speak

without pushing,

to stay

without vanishing,

to ask

without folding into guilt—

I’ll be somewhere

untangled,

quietly whole,

and no longer at war

with myself

for trying

to understand you.