Nowhere To Go Quiet

A weary soul's plea for a moment of true silence away from the weight of being needed.

Nowhere to Go Quiet


I don’t want the world—
not today,
not in the way it presses
its fingerprints into my skin
like I owe it something.


I just want a corner
that doesn’t breathe back,
a silence that doesn’t ask questions,
a moment that isn’t already spoken for.


But the noise—
God, the noise—
it follows me like a second shadow,
leans over my shoulder,
calls my name
like it owns it.


Even when the room is empty,
it isn’t empty.
There are echoes of expectation,
ghosts of conversations I didn’t finish,
needs that wear my name
like a tag I can’t rip off.


“Mom.”
“Hey.”
“Can you—”
“Just one thing—”
“Are you okay?”


And I want to scream—
not because I don’t love them,
but because I am dissolving
into pieces of everyone else.


There’s no door I can close
that doesn’t come with guilt.
No quiet that doesn’t feel stolen.
No breath that belongs only to me.


I am always
reachable.
Needed.
On call for a life
that never clocks out.


And I am so—
so tired
of being a place
everyone else rests
while I stand.


If I could disappear for a moment,
not forever—
just long enough
to remember what my own thoughts sound like,
what it feels like
to exist without being pulled—


I think I’d come back softer.
Kinder.
Less worn at the edges.


But instead
I stay—
half here,
half somewhere inside myself
that no one ever gets to see,


because even my solitude
has to wait its turn.