The Things I Don't Say

I don’t say

I’m tired of being the strong one.

I envy the way rain lets go of the sky

without apology. That sometimes, I imagine

disappearing—not dying,

stepping out of the story

seeing if anyone would turn the page.

***

I don’t say I resent kindness when it comes too late.

How I pocket compliments like loose change—

pretty, but never enough for what I’m starving for.

I don’t say how often I dream, which is loads,

of running into someone’s arms

and not having to explain

the weight I carry to stand still.

***

I don’t say that silence

is safer than honesty—

not because it’s true,

but because I’ve watched my truth

split rooms like earthquakes

and I never learned

how to rebuild without bleeding.

***

I don’t say I am jealous

of people who believe with both hands—

in God, in love, in themselves.

I always believed in leaving first,

before anything could collapse on me.

***

I don’t say that I sometimes miss

versions of myself I never got to be—

the reckless one, the soft one,

or the one who didn’t keep a blade

between her ribs just in case.

***

I don’t say how loud the quiet is at night.

How memories climb into bed with me

and whisper what could have been,

what never should have been,

what still haunts the hollow inside of me.

***

But tonight—

I say it.

***

Every jagged syllable.

Every ember I swallowed

because I thought I had to burn alone.

***

Let my fingers write and hold it.

Let the page be the wound and the stitch.

***

I am here.

This is the sound of silence,

finally breaking free.