I don’t really ever remember it happening before—certainly not like that.
Words, like silk,  
slid right past my guard,  
left me standing there  
unarmed, unprepared,  
not used to kindness cutting me deep.  

She said things I didn’t know  
people said about me,  
the air in the room was different,  
the empty space was full of weight,  
each word heavier than the last, 
but in a way that felt amazing to hold.

I'm used to silent praise,  
the “good job” nod,  
the firm handshake that says enough  
without saying much.
But this—was a flood, a wave,  
a tide that caught me in the open,  
drowned out all the noise  
I’m comfortable living in.

You don’t expect someone to see you  
the way you forget to see yourself.  
Not when you’ve grown so used to shadows  
you start thinking you belong to them.  

But she spoke to me like light  
through cracks I’d buried,  
like maybe I was worth something,  
and hell,  
I didn’t know what to do with that.  

I made noise but didn’t speak,  
heart stammering like when I was a boy,  
unsure if I’d be enough  
to hold the weight of her words,  
afraid they’d slip through my hands,  
afraid they’d slip through me.

But they didn’t.  

They stuck,  
in the space between my ribs,  
beneath the skin I’ve learned to wear like armor,  
left me bare,  
left me seen  
in a way that didn't feel meant for me. 

But she didn’t stutter. It *was* for me.

I’m not used to being spoken to like that.  
And maybe that’s why it hit so hard—  
Because in her voice,  
there was something I try to give but haven’t had much chance to receive.  
Something like hope.
Something like love.
Something that made me feel
like maybe I’m worth speaking about  
after all.