My Demons

It's been a while.

I want to tell you about a demon

the one you've glimpsed,

though I’ve never named her.

I don't talk much.

Filled with isolophilia I am,

content in the company of quiet.

Silence is all I can offer in a conversation.

Or strange, uninvited questions

that tug too hard at the seams of shallow talk.

You ask me why I always lay off plans with you.

Dear, how do I show you the parts of me

I’ve only ever written down?

She hesitates..

scared showing you all of herself.

That your eyes and mind would judge mine.

That your presence would overwhelm my senses.

The way my gaze slides away from others’

might repulse you.

The stillness in my voice might bore you.

And the love I carry

might never reach you at all.

The truth is,

I spend most of my days with paper.

I talk to my diary

so my mind can hear birds instead of static.

I tell it everything

so there’s never much left for you.

You once asked why I almost always attend parties.

What can I say?

People watching.

When everyone melts into conversation,

no one notices a stoic in a crowd.

I blend in, sit in a dark corner,

and observe them tell tales,

being human,

being alive in this cold world.

I watch how their lips stretch into a smile

when they light up about something they love.

I love solitude, I really do.

But sometimes

it feels like a room that forgot its warmth.

When it gets that cold,

I wrap a shawl around my shoulders

just to remember what softness feels like.

I know it was me who asked,

but it really did ache

when you said,

"You don't talk enough."

I think of that often.

Why do humans need to fill every silence

when they could listen

to the hush of trees,

the quiet in someone’s eyes,

the calm of their own breath?

I won't trouble you with my demons anymore 

Take care, dear.

I'll work on them.

A.V