I Don’t Say These Things

I Don’t Say These Things

I don’t say

that I rehearse small talk

like lines in a play,

or that I practice smiles

in mirrors I don’t trust.

I don’t say

that some mornings,

the weight of waking

feels like a quiet punishment

for something I never did.

I nod,

I joke,

I carry everyone’s bags,

but no one ever asks

why mine are packed

so tight.

I don’t say

that I miss people

who are still alive,

just not in my life.

Or that I keep messages

I’ll never send,

just to pretend

I still could.

I’ve cried in toilets

of birthday parties,

held my breath

at family dinners,

and made peace with being

the misunderstood one.

Again.

I don’t say

how rage boils quietly,

how I clench my teeth

until thoughts pass

like storms I wasn’t allowed to name.

I’ve bitten back truths

sharp enough to slice

the room in half.

I’ve buried apologies

no one earned.

I don’t say any of it.

But I write it.

Not for you—

for me.

So it can finally stop

echoing

in the dark.

These are the things I never say out loud,

now set free.