I Don’t Talk Anymore

I used to talk.
A lot.

About my day.
My dreams.

My fears.
My mistakes.

I used to hope
someone cared.

But one day
I stopped.

Not all at once.
Just slowly.

Like turning off
a light.

One switch
at a time.

They nodded.
But didn’t hear.

They said
“Cheer up.”

As if
I didn’t try.

They said
“You think too much.”

As if
I chose this.

So I stayed quiet.
Kept it inside.

Smiled
on time.

Laughed
just enough.

So no one
would worry.

So no one
would notice.

And it worked.
Too well.

Now they think
I’m fine.

Because I never
say otherwise.

Because I don’t
talk anymore.

I write sometimes.
Late at night.

When the world
is sleeping.

When my thoughts
get too loud.

But I tear
the pages.

Throw them away.
Like my voice.

Because what’s
the point

if no one
listens?

I carry it.
All of it.

Like a bag
with no bottom.

Heavy.
Invisible.

And if I fall
they’ll say

“I never knew
they were struggling.”

But they did.
They just ignored it.

So now,
I don’t talk.

I breathe.
I walk.

And I wait
for a voice

that finally says:
“I hear you.”