I am always the listener.
And I do listen.
I try to help by staying quiet,
So they can feel felt, and be seen.
Even miles away, I am listening.
I am listening to everyone.
I am listening
To everyone but me.
And no one else is listening either.
I open my mouth
And another voice drowns mine out.
And I am forgotten.
When they are done being heard,
They are done using me
Using my extraordinary ears.
Done sitting on my heart
And pushing the air from my lungs,
Making me feel small.
They leave me.
They go back to whatever it was
They were thinking about that wasn’t me.
It is never me.
And when they go back,
They do not think about how much I listened,
Or how their throats are dry from speaking so much.
They cannot remember my responses,
Because I barely spoke.
Because I cannot be allowed to speak.
It must be a crime, you see
Punishable by law
For someone to listen to me.
And so, I forget
What it feels like to be heard.
I forget that people are supposed
To want to do that, too.
I forget.
And I forget.
I forget what it feels like
To be the one who is loved,
And not the one doing all the loving.
And my well is dry.
I thought the tap was endless,
But there is no more water
To give.
Prattle Peach 