unleashingthoughts2

If I could be a fly on the wall…

who’s wall would I land on first?

A political room where decisions are made in half-voices and practiced smiles?
Where power sits too straight in chairs
and truth is bent just enough to pass through?

Or a doctor’s office after the shift ends—
lights off, coat finally off the shoulders—
does he grieve what he couldn’t save,
or does he learn to pack it away
like it was never his to carry?

Maybe I’d land in history instead…

Elvis, where fame feels like a crowded room you can’t leave.
Janis Joplin, where genius and pain drink from the same glass
and no one knows which one wins first.

Or darker rooms…
rooms people whisper about but never want to enter—
the mind of a serial killer
where something human still exists
but nothing feels like home anymore.

Or a queen’s chamber
where silence is never empty—
it’s strategy, it’s duty, it’s loneliness dressed in gold.

Or my mother’s kitchen
where life is just life again—
tea boiling, memories cooking,
words left unsaid sitting in the air like steam.

If I could be a fly on the wall…

I think I’d hear everything people don’t say out loud.
The confessions.
The laughter they hide.
The regrets they swallow.
The truths that never make it into daylight.

Good. Funny. Ugly. Embarrassing. Real.

I would carry secrets across the world
like they were nothing
and everything at the same time.

But if I’m being honest…

if I could be a fly on the wall,

I think I’d watch me.

Not the version I show the world.

The real one.

The one behind the eyes when no one is looking.
The one trying to hold grief and meaning in the same breath.
The one still learning how to live inside everything she’s survived.

And maybe I wouldn’t fly away right away.

Maybe I’d just stay there a while…

watching myself become
who I’m still becoming.