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Nobody Is Thinking About You
No, love, they aren’t watching.
Not the way you imagine,
Not the theatre you’ve built in their minds
where every step you take is a drumroll
and every silence, a verdict.
The truth is smaller.
And stranger.
Their thoughts are not arrows aimed at you,
but boomerangs spun
from their own wounded wanting,
curving ever back to themselves.
That glance you caught?
It was a mirror,
not a lens.
That silence you feared?
It was just breath
paused between lines of an inner monologue
that had nothing to do with you.
They weren’t judging your stumble,
they were tripping over ghosts of their own.
They weren’t measuring your joy,
they were weighing their hunger.
They weren’t plotting your ruin,
they were lost in their own collapse.
Nobody is thinking about you.
Not really.
Not the way the ache in your belly
wants them to.
And here,
in the ashes of that myth,
a strange freedom begins to bloom.
The kind that dances barefoot
on the stage of nobody’s theatre.
The kind that paints
with no eyes watching.
The kind that loves
without audience.
So go on.
Make the mess.
Sing off-key.
Be naked in your becoming.
For the world is too full
of its own noise
to notice your quiet miracle,
and that, my dear,
is your cue.
