The Half-Said


Something from behind
keeps covering my mouth
right before the important parts.

Not violently.
More like
a parent fixing a child’s collar
before guests arrive.
I keep hearing movement upstairs
despite living alone.

Chairs slightly pulled out.
A glass misplaced by an inch.
Thoughts returning
with fingerprints that aren’t mine.

Sometimes I’ll form a sentence
and suddenly feel watched by it.
As if somewhere behind my eyes,
a small committee is shaking their heads
without speaking.

It’s strange—
how certain truths rot untouched,
like fruit left in a locked drawer,
sweetening the entire room
while nobody admits
there’s anything there at all. 

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