If You Could Hear the Silence in Me

I smile when I want to scream.
I nod when I want to walk away.
I say “I’m fine,” even when I’m shattering inside.
I make eye contact, but I don’t let anyone in.
I laugh in rooms where I feel like a ghost.
I play the part. I follow the script.
I become who they want me to be—
and somewhere along the way, I forgot how to just be me.

I carry grief like a secret folded into my chest,
like a love letter I’ll never send.
It aches when the world is quiet,
but I’ve learned how to hide it in to-do lists,
in polite replies, in small talk that tastes like cardboard.

There are days I want to disappear—
not forever, just long enough to breathe.
To unpeel all the layers I’ve worn for survival.
To scream into the wind without saying sorry.
To cry without explaining why.
To just… feel, without fearing the fallout.

I love people more than I say.
I forgive quietly, even when I shouldn't.
I break my own heart, protecting others from the truth.
I write unsent messages and then delete them,
because who really wants the whole story?
Who stays when the mask slips?

I remember things I never mention—
like how a single sentence can linger for years,
how a look can burn,
how silence can be louder than a slap.

Sometimes I lie awake wondering:
What would happen if I spoke all of it?
The truth. The hurt. The need. The fury.
Would they still love me
if I stopped shrinking to fit into their comfort?

I tell jokes to dodge the ache.
I keep things light so no one sees the depth.
But the weight is real.
And I’m tired of carrying the world
while pretending I’m floating.

I want someone to notice when I say “I’m okay”
with that pause before the smile.
I want someone to ask again when I shrug.
I want someone to hear the words I never speak—
and stay anyway.

I want to say:
I’m scared of being abandoned.
I’m scared of not being enough.
I’m scared of being too much.
I’m scared of getting it wrong.
I’m scared I’ll never be understood.
I’m scared I already was—and they left anyway.

I want to scream into someone’s arms:
This is me. All of it. The messy, the moody, the overthinking, the heart that breaks too fast and heals too slow.
Will you still want me
when I stop pretending I’m easy to love?

I hold in “I miss you” like it’s poison.
I swallow “I need help” like it’s weakness.
I choke on “I’m not okay” because I’ve said it before—
and the room just went quiet.

But this poem—
This is me finally saying it.

This is the scream I buried for years.
This is the softness I’ve armored.
This is the truth I’ve whispered into pillows.
This is the silence, broken.
This is my voice, raw and shaking—
but mine.

And if you’re still here,
reading this,
maybe you’ve got a silence too.
One you never shared.
One that still aches in your chest.

So let this be your permission, too—
to speak.

Even if your voice trembles.
Even if no one claps.
Even if you cry after.
Even if you stand alone.

Because silence is heavy.
But truth—truth sets fire to the dark.