Learning How To Stay

A quiet poem about withholding as a form of survival, and the slow, uncertain work of learning how to remain present when finally seen.

What should I tell you

when the veil falls?

How do I admit

I cannot cope with this world?

How can I show it to you -

that sometimes I get lost

after fitting most of the pieces together?

What words should I use?

The restrained, the untamed ones

have already flown -

I can't catch them,

can't place them back in my mouth.

They wrap me again

in a fabric of lies,

protecting a shameful face,

and keeping the world at the distance.

I swallow the rest what's not said.

Maybe one day I will feel 

comfortable exposing myself

behind the tulle.

Maybe one day I won't sip 

the juice of regret

the morning after

revealing my thoughts,

my hopes, my dreams to you.

Maybe one day I will trust 

my beliefs

even when they are tested.

Still -

growing up always walks

a few steps ahead of me.

Maybe one day I will look you

in the eye

without breaking my gaze,

and stop living in half-light.

Maybe one day you will touch 

my authentic essence - 

free of shame,

free of fear -

just before I fall asleep.

Maybe one day I will stop running 

away

from myself,

from life,

from happiness.

In the meantime,

keep calling me.

I will hear you.

I will ache to return.

Stay still.

Have faith.

You will reflect my way back to you.

Trust in divine timing.

Maybe one day I will

stop disappearing long enough

to be found -

not as a ghost,

not as a half-truth,

not as an elusive illusion,

but still as someone still

learning how to stay

when seen.