When I Dream

When I dream,

all I see is your face—

not the version I tell the world about,

but the one I still can’t look at

without something in me breaking.

My mind spills the truth at night,

because sleep is the only place

I don’t get to lie.

The pain shows up unmasked,

unfiltered,

unapologetic—

like it’s been waiting for the silence.

But when I wake,

I put the armor back on.

I cover up how I feel

with practiced smiles

and sentences I don’t believe.

People ask how I’m doing,

and I give them the safe answer,

the one that keeps the room comfortable.

Nobody wants to hear

that I still bleed in dreams.

Nobody wants the version of me

that doesn’t heal neatly.

So I swallow it.

The grief.

The guilt.

The nights that still replay like a warning.

I only tell the truth in sleep—

because the daylight demands performance,

and I’ve gotten good at pretending

I’m not still haunted.