The Art of Keeping My Mouth Shut

It takes practice,

this quiet.

Years of it.

Like calligraphy—

but done on the inside of the cheek.

A delicate craft,

really:

press the tongue to the roof of the mouth,

anchor the breath,

fold the sentence

into a smaller,

less dangerous shape.

Swallow it.

Because I’ve learned:

not everything worth saying

is safe to say.

So instead, I mask microexpressions—

a raised brow,

a well-timed blink,

the upward tilt of a mouth

that almost says

what it’s dying to.

Inside,

a thousand wasps hum behind my lips.

Outside,

I sip tea like a monk

in a museum.

Don’t mistake silence

for peace.

Sometimes it’s a fortress.

Sometimes a straitjacket

stitched from good intentions.

Kind. Polite. A calmness protected—

Restricted, just the same.

And sure—

it’s not always noble.

Sometimes it’s petty.

Sometimes it’s fear.

Sometimes it’s just

not having the energy

to explain myself

again.

Still, I bite the words

like they might bite back.

Carry them home

in the lining of my chest,

set them gently on a shelf

next to all the other things

I didn’t say.

You ask me what I’m thinking.

I say,

“Oh, nothing.”

And I watch the sentence

fold itself—

once again—

into something small.

And I swallow.