For what it’s worth,
those words tremble from my lips
more often than not —
unheard, unacknowledged,
as though I’m only ever half-there,
a shadow at the edge of your focus.
For what it’s worth,
you once had a place
in the quiet corners of my heart —
not a home,
but a storm shelter
cracked at the seams.
A battleground of quiet wars
where even silence left bruises.
I rewrite the truth,
try to shape it into something soft,
something you might believe.
But it slips through.
Nothing I do seems to hold.
Nothing feels certain.
I change direction
like a car caught in a roundabout —
circling, circling,
too afraid to choose a way out.
Every road leads somewhere,
and somewhere might hurt.
So I don’t move.
And while I stall,
the engine inside me starts to burn.
The pressure builds.
The heat rises.
But still — I wait.
Because moving means deciding,
and deciding means risking being wrong.
Help me.
Say something I understand.
Your silence is a language
I never learned to speak.
For what it’s worth —
I want to understand.
But I’m burning.
Slowly, completely —
as the engine heats up
and demands a choice.
Any exit might save me,
might stop the flames.
But I keep circling.
Until the engine explodes —
and pieces of me
fly in every direction,
even the ones I tried hardest to avoid.
Now, for what it’s worth,
all that’s left
is wreckage made from hesitation,
scattered through the silence
we never learned to break.