i dont talk to my friends anymore
the weeds grew fast in the yard
not wildflowers, not beauty
just things that live when you forgot to care
the grass climbs over old footsteps
the porch remembers laughter
i barely recall
now it creaks under my weight like a question
i wont answer
the growth of who I am
crawled over who I was
i cant see him clearly now
just a blur in the mirror
before i brush my teeth
before i remember how much he smiled
without trying
i dont like this change
but i need it
like bitter tea when youre sick
like silence after too much noise
so i sit
in the silent house of myself
curtains drawn, dishes undone
i keep the lights dim
so i wont see the empty places
where people once stood
i dont talk
because so many already left
and the echo of "how are you?"
never lands right anymore
i dont talk
because im tired of answering
tired of explaining
why my laugh feels borrowed
and my eyes always say more than i let my mouth admit
i dont talk
because i dont mind feelings
i just hate the ones i have
they crawl through me like ivy
slow and consuming
theyve made a garden i cant walk through
only sit inside
watching what ive become
grow tall over what i was
and so
i dont talk
not to them
not to you
only to the quiet
only to the weeds