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.
Through the Fog 