confessions of a quiet affair

Despite not being a quiet person in nature, you unlearn yourself so quietly.

It’s in the way you silently stare at your hands and wonder if this skin was ever beautiful to begin with. It’s in the way you look at your written words, prose and poetry alike, and wonder if they ever really glowed at all. It’s in the way you run your finger over compliments and wonder if your palms are the ones fit to hold them.

Maybe they did, once. But not now. And this all happens ever so quietly. So delicately, that you think your heart will shrink in its chest and no one will notice it. When the sun wanes away, it is devoid of noise.

And when Rudy Francisco whispered, “I’m still learning to love the parts of me that no one claps for,” you shut your MacBook and stared at the ceiling. And you fell apart ever so quietly, and cupped the fragments of yourself ever so quietly. Validation is funny. You are a funny person. You don’t think it’s in the good way. Not now.

And you do not loathe yourself, because that would be much too loud. But you think you’re learning to un-love yourself.

Ha. What a quiet affair.