UNHEARD

By Frank Guru

I came again tonight, Dark.

Don’t pretend you didn’t hear the door.

I know the sound my loneliness makes when it enters a room;

it drags its feet like a tired prisoner.

Sit with me.

I have carried another day that did not want me in it.

Today I laughed at jokes I did not hear.

I shook hands with people who never looked into my eyes.

They called me strong again, Dark—

that word they use when they want my shoulders

but not my sorrow.

Tell me, how long can a man hold himself together before he becomes a knot?

I am tired of being everyone’s shelter.

Tired of answering midnight calls with a steady voice.

Tired of saying “I’m here for you”

while no one notices I have disappeared from myself.

I have become a bridge, Dark,

and everyone crosses me without asking what the river has done to my bones.

Today I prayed for a woman whose husband left her.

I prayed for a child in hospital.

I prayed for a friend drowning in debt.

When I tried to pray for myself,

the words stood at my lips like strangers refusing to enter a house.

Tell me, Dark, does heaven also avoid me?

I came home and spoke to an empty room.

I set down my keys carefully, as if someone might be sleeping.

I served food onto a plate and lost my appetite before the first bite.

I washed a cup that had only held water.

Explain that, Dark.

Explain why a man can be surrounded all day and still return home untouched.

Look at me.

I am talking too much again.

That is what grief does when it finally finds a listener.

I speak because walls do not interrupt.

I speak because pillows keep secrets.

I speak because if I stop, I will hear the crack inside my own chest.

You have mistaken my silence for patience,

the Dark finally said.

Night after night you arrive carrying the same wound,

and night after night you ask me to bless it.

I have watched you feed everyone else while starving beside a full table.

I have watched you give away the better portion and call it kindness.

I have watched you smile in photographs with your hands clenched behind your back.

You do not come to me for truth; you come to me for permission to keep breaking.

“Then tell me what to do,” I shouted.

The room trembled with my breathing.

“I have no strength left.”

The Dark answered, weary as an old grave:

The world did not leave you all at once;

it left one unanswered ache at a time.

I was never real enough to stay,

and now even your imagination is closing the door.

DRESSED

​*DRESSED*

*BY FRANK GURU*

How fortunate, they say, to see me smile,

How charming that I laugh with such delight;

They praise the grace with which I bear my days,

And never ask what keeps me wakeful through the night.

For sorrow, dear reader, is terribly polite;

It would never dream of causing a scene.

It takes its tea with sugar, wears its finest lace,

And bows most graciously whenever it is seen.

I have taught it how to enter drawing rooms,

How to curtsy when my name is called;

How to sit beside me through the evening,

And whisper nothing whilst I smile at all.

I have become quite skilled at being well,

So skilled, in fact, that even I believe it—

I converse, I dance, I offer pleasant company,

Whilst something within me quietly grieves it.

And should you inquire after my constitution,

I shall assure you, as etiquette commands,

That I am quite recovered, quite content, quite happy—

Whilst sorrow trembles softly in my hands.

For what is misery, if dressed with sufficient elegance?

What is despair, if one maintains one's grace?

Perhaps the world requires no healing heart—

Only a pleasant smile upon a sorrowful face.

Yet when the music ceases its gentle persuasion,

When candles surrender their golden light,

And the last of the company takes their leave,

Silence has the audacity to ask me how I am tonight.

And there, without an audience to impress,

I find the truth I so carefully conceal:

I have spent so many years convincing everyone I'm well,

That I scarcely remember what it means to heal.

​*UNHEARD*

*By Frank Guru*

I came again tonight, Dark.

Don’t pretend you didn’t hear the door.

I know the sound my loneliness makes when it enters a room;

it drags its feet like a tired prisoner.

Sit with me.

I have carried another day that did not want me in it.

Today I laughed at jokes I did not hear.

I shook hands with people who never looked into my eyes.

They called me strong again, Dark—

that word they use when they want my shoulders

but not my sorrow.

Tell me, how long can a man hold himself together before he becomes a knot?

I am tired of being everyone’s shelter.

Tired of answering midnight calls with a steady voice.

Tired of saying “I’m here for you”

while no one notices I have disappeared from myself.

I have become a bridge, Dark,

and everyone crosses me without asking what the river has done to my bones.

Today I prayed for a woman whose husband left her.

I prayed for a child in hospital.

I prayed for a friend drowning in debt.

When I tried to pray for myself,

the words stood at my lips like strangers refusing to enter a house.

Tell me, Dark, does heaven also avoid me?

I came home and spoke to an empty room.

I set down my keys carefully, as if someone might be sleeping.

I served food onto a plate and lost my appetite before the first bite.

I washed a cup that had only held water.

Explain that, Dark.

Explain why a man can be surrounded all day and still return home untouched.

Look at me.

I am talking too much again.

That is what grief does when it finally finds a listener.

I speak because walls do not interrupt.

I speak because pillows keep secrets.

I speak because if I stop, I will hear the crack inside my own chest.

You have mistaken my silence for patience,

the Dark finally said.

Night after night you arrive carrying the same wound,

and night after night you ask me to bless it.

I have watched you feed everyone else while starving beside a full table.

I have watched you give away the better portion and call it kindness.

I have watched you smile in photographs with your hands clenched behind your back.

You do not come to me for truth; you come to me for permission to keep breaking.

“Then tell me what to do,” I shouted.

The room trembled with my breathing.

“I have no strength left.”

The Dark answered, weary as an old grave:

The world did not leave you all at once;

it left one unanswered ache at a time.

I was never real enough to stay,

and now even your imagination is closing the door.