Dialogue with myself
I ask myself
not out loud—inside me.
Why does it still hurt,
if time has passed?
Time has passed,
but love doesn’t know how to leave.
Mom—a void that has a name.
Her absence lives in me
like a quiet room without light.
Dad—a choice not to be.
Not anger.
Not conflict.
Just absence, which tore security
to pieces from the inside.
I held people close, friends—
like home.
I made them tame.
I believed.
And when they spoke, their words didn’t shout—
they cut silently.
Pain doesn’t always scream.
Sometimes
it just stays.
Maybe you’re too sensitive? No.
I just feel deeply.
And that is—not a fault.
There are days
when there is anger in me
that I don’t dare to let go.
There are days
when the emptiness has no name.
Just heaviness.
But I write.
Because when I write,
I am still here.
Because my voice
has not left me.
I am not always strong.
Sometimes I am just
the one who is left.
But today it is enough.
And maybe one day
I will say to myself, gently:
you are not too much.
You just are.