The Things I Don’t Say

There are things

I don’t say out loud—

not because I don’t feel them,

but because once words exist

outside of me,

they become harder

to survive.

So I keep them buried.

The anger

that never fully leaves.

The loneliness

that shows up

even in crowded rooms.

The fear

that maybe I’ve spent so long

pretending to be okay

I forgot how to actually be it.

People think silence

means peace.

They don’t realize

silence can also mean

containment.

A dam holding back

everything

I don’t trust myself

to release.

Because I know

what happens

when pain spills over.

How quickly

it can ruin a moment,

a relationship,

an entire version

of yourself.

So I swallow it.

Turn it inward.

Carry it quietly

until it becomes

part of my posture.

And still—

some part of me

wants to be understood.

Not fixed.

Not rescued.

Just seen

without having to translate

every wound

into something easier

for other people to hold.

Maybe that’s why I write.

Because paper

doesn’t flinch.

And poems

don’t ask me

to make the truth

sound prettier

than it is.