Only Echoes

That was who I was.

I was loud enough to hear —

but only from a distance.

A voice folded in fog,

never quite reaching the place it longed to land.

—

Rooms full of silence spoke louder than I did.

Every word I meant to say returned to me —

blurred, faded, fragile,

as if the world only listened to forget.

—

Speaking was always my biggest sin.

But like the sinner I was,

I longed to scream.

—

Disrespectful. Ungrateful.

That was who I became

when my screams finally grazed their ears.

—

My words always echoed —

always lingered, but never settled.

I was a living testament to their abuse,

an echo of the pain they gave me.

—

And just like an echo,

my fate was sealed.

I was always meant to receive,

but never meant to give —

just a little of my pain.

—

What a tragic fate was mine.

The roads were built long before the changing lanes.

—

And when it was my turn to change lanes,

when it was my turn to speak,

my voice failed me.

—

Or in my case,

they refused to lend an ear to my words.

They were too occupied,

stunned by my vibration,

to truly listen.

—

So I — day by day, year by year —

spoke louder, echoed longer,

just for a change.

Just for a chance

that maybe this time,

someone will listen —

to understand.

—

Because even echoes are meant to be heard.