The Hidden Journal

There’s a voice that doesn’t speak in full sentences.
It hums between thoughts.
It lives in the pause before I answer,
in the space between what I feel and what I say.

───

It never rushes.
It doesn’t explain itself.
It knows the difference between what’s true
and what’s just loud.

───

Sometimes I silence it without meaning to —
filling the air with noise,
trying to sound certain.
But when the noise settles,
that voice always returns,
quiet but steady.

───

It tells me when something isn’t love.
It tells me when I’m performing strength
instead of resting in it.
It tells me when I’ve stayed too long
in places that drain the color from me.

───

This voice doesn’t shout to be heard.
It waits.
Patient, ancient, and mine.
And when I finally listen,
it always says the same thing:

You already know.

— Desiree