Things She Doesn't Say Out Loud

(by the little girl with the quiet eyes)

There is a room inside my chest
where no one ever knocks.
The floor is made of puzzle pieces
that never found the box.

I speak in sideways glances,
whispers folded in my hands—
watching faces I can’t read
and houses built on sand.

I know the sound of heavy doors
that close without a sound.
I know the ache of waiting still
while no one's looking 'round.

There’s no scrapbook on the shelf
with beach days or sunlit trails—
just echoes in a hallway
and dreams with paper sails.

Sometimes I think I shimmer wrong—
too sharp, too soft, too wide.
So I fold myself in corners
and learn how to hide.

But I remember light—
not loud, not bright—just kind.
It lives in the quiet things
that grownups never find.

Like the way grass leans to listen
when you lie down very still,
Or how clouds seem to hover
when your heart forgets to fill.

I don’t need much to feel it—
just someone who won’t leave.
Someone who’ll hold the silence
and teach me how to breathe.