Because No One Reads

Because No One Reads

I know with a quiet certainty that no one reads words, and for that, I am surely glad,
since words unravel more than anyone wants to hold, a lace too fragile for calloused hands.
It means no one will notice the way I fumble with ghosts of my past,
and no one will feel that jagged edge, the scrape of regret veiled behind lines unseen,
because no one reads words, they do not care for meanings stripped bare in black ink.

No one reads words, so I am safe here, my thoughts exposed and yet wrapped in shade.
Let the world skip across pages, blind to bruised syllables hiding in plain sight.
They would rather caress glossy images, soaking in curves and colors like blind men
lost in the thrill of shapes, forgetting how shape is haunted by something deeper.
No one reads words, so I stay unknown, safe in the silence of a crowded room.

Because no one reads words, their voices trip and fall on the hollow steps of speech,
so empty they do not even know how to name the ache burning in their chests.
They lack the language to catch the unsaid, to bring form to the shapeless fog of feeling.
What remains is a hum of desire, a blur of want without shape or weight or depth,
just words turned to noise, words drained to static, a hollowed-out language they cannot hold.

And if no one reads words, let them continue, let the mistakes breathe and breed again.
The lessons stay hidden between these lines, history smudged into inked invisibility.
What we lost before, we lose again, and I smile at the quiet trick of it all,
knowing they see only the gleam of light, missing the pulse, the shadow beneath.
Because no one reads words, nothing really changes, no scars written clean, no ghosts set free.