Not carved for this life, I slip through its seams,

its worn fabric unraveling secrets unseen.

Strength? They call it courage, call it grit—

but what do they know of the weight I sit with?

My mother says, “Grow,” but roots run too deep,

and if I were a son, would I be taught to weep?

Or would silence be pressed into calloused hands,

with whispered truths only silence understands?

Pain’s the only language I know how to hold,

the only thread I wear, frayed and cold.

It’s carved my name where no one can trace,

a hidden badge, an unlit place.

And though I’ve buried what the world won’t see,

denial slips, unraveling me.

Change and growth, shadows I fear to touch,

yet something inside me whispers, “Enough.”

What lies beneath is mystery’s art,

where secrets are kept in the folds of my heart.