I learned loneliness
before I learned to speak,
a child quietly building a home
from silence,
walls thick enough
to hide pain, fear,
everything I couldn’t afford
for the world to see.

I watched love through
my friend’s living room window,
parents who smiled without conditions,
voices softer than the edges
I’d grown accustomed to.
I’d wonder
were their hearts made differently,
or was mine?

In that emptiness,
I taught myself how to move
three steps ahead,
reading faces like books
I’d never fully trust
because trusting
meant losing,
and losing meant returning
to a quiet room
with no one waiting inside.

Yet, behind every shield
I raised,
every hurt I inflicted
just to prove I was still here,
was a child desperately
trading pieces of himself
for scraps of approval
tiny affirmations
that someone could care.

And today,
I still carry that child,
his silent void tucked within
my ribs,
aching in quiet hours,
whispering that no success,
no strength, no victory
will ever compare
to feeling loved
without having to earn it.

At night,
the truth of this absence
returns:
I would trade
everything
every breath, every triumph,
every dream
just to feel
what it’s like
to truly be someone’s child.