Filling Space

Storm clouds gather in my throat –
quiet ache, a cold that won’t move.
Each word I choose feels like a step on thin ice.
The space between us hums,
static,
tired,
unforgiving.

“Let it be,” says a voice –
not the one rooted in peace,
but the sly one,
the one dressed as kindness,
telling me to fill the silence,
to soften myself,
to keep the peace at any cost.

So, I do.
I fill space with words that aren’t necessary.
Try hard.
Bridge the distance with explanations
when all that was needed
was quiet truth.
Respect that doesn’t need to prove itself.

And even when I speak my truth,
I rush to smooth it over –
making sure you’re comfortable,
that harmony remains.
I manage reactions that haven’t happened yet,
compensating for pain that could have come from honesty,
cushioning my own voice.

And beneath it all –
a small ache burns:
Why can’t I just be liked?

It’s not pride asking.
It’s the child – the one left unseen
when the room filled with noise and chaos.
The one who learned that safety
came from being agreeable.
Grief, dressed as gentleness.
Anger, hiding behind persuasiveness –
because sadness sounds more agreeable,
more passive,
less threatening.

Then, the weight returns.
The knowing:
I’ve done it again.
Square one.
The frustration of the cycle repeating.

And something soft opens –
a whisper, this time honest:
Help me.

Help me stop gripping.
Help me remember –
everyone walks their own path.
Help me loosen
the need to fix,
to please,
to control.

Right now – this moment –
is enough.
I can start again.

Let it go.
Breathe peace in.
Let gentleness find its way back.
One more time,
I choose calm.
I choose presence.
Now.