We think we are an island
a solitary shape rising from the water
self‑made, self‑contained
untouched by the tides that carry other lives
But we are not
We are archipelagos—
separate only at the surface
connected by the quiet bridges
we pretend not to need
We all search for someone
though we rarely admit it
Someone to share the weight
of our unspoken hours
someone to hold the pieces
we scatter behind us like breadcrumbs
for the brave or the curious
We offer fragments of ourselves
to those who drift near—
a story here, a confession there
a truth trimmed down
to something safe enough to survive
We never give the whole
Not because we are false
but because
we are fragile
Everyone enters our life by degrees
Circles within circles
thresholds within thresholds
Some remain at the periphery
shadows moving along the outer ring
Some step closer
but never close enough
to hear the tremor beneath our voice
We are Russian nesting dolls
layered by caution
painted by experience
hollowed by the things
we cannot say aloud
Each shell a version of ourselves—
the polite one
the guarded one
the one who smiles through the ache
the one who knows exactly
where the fractures are
And at the center
the smallest figure
the truest one—
the self we rarely let breathe
the self we hope
someone will one day reach
without breaking us open
It is not a hardship
to maintain the façade
It is the etiquette of survival
the cost of coexistence
the quiet choreography
of being human
Still, beneath every layer
beneath every practiced mask
we are waiting—
for the one presence
we will trust with the final door
the one who will see us
without translation
the one who will know
the distance between our skins
and choose to stay
© Ron Simpson Jr.
August 27, 2026
