Between What’s Said and Buried

Communication breaks me open

in ways I don’t always survive.

It drags the truth out of the corners

I’ve kept in shadow,

forces me to name the things

I swore I’d never admit aloud.

I’ve spent years learning

how to make my silence look graceful—

how to swallow storms,

how to smile with a mouth full of grief,

how to carry secrets

without letting the weight show.

But silence is a grave,

and I’ve buried too many versions of myself

trying to keep the peace.

Trying to keep people.

Trying to keep from falling apart

in front of the wrong eyes.

So when you ask me what’s wrong,

I hesitate.

Not because I don’t want to tell you,

but because I don’t know

how to hand you the truth

without bleeding in the process.

Communication isn’t easy for people like me—

people who learned to fear their own voice,

who were taught that honesty

was the fastest way to lose someone.

People who mistake vulnerability

for danger.

But still—

I try.

I open my mouth even when it trembles.

I let the words come out

messy, fractured, imperfect,

hoping you’ll stay long enough

to understand the quiet parts too.

Because even though communication

breaks me open,

I’m tired of sealing myself shut.

I’m tired of burying what I feel

and calling it strength.

Maybe this is what growth looks like—

letting my truth exist

outside of my own head,

even if my voice cracks on the way out.

Maybe this is how I rise

from all the graves I dug for myself.