The Part I Don’t Write About

I talk about walking,

How I lace up the day like boots

and drag the hours behind me,

step by stubborn step.

I write about grey days, like I'm talking about the weather

not the place I live.

I say “fight” like a mantra.

Like I know what side I’m on.

Like I’m not the battlefield,

or the enemy

and the wounded

and the deathly silence after.

I talk about strength

like it’s a choice that I keep making,

like I wake up ready,

like I’m not already tired,

tired of the day that hasn't even started.

But this is the part I never say out loud

Some mornings, the version of me who gets through it all

just doesn’t show up,

I don’t want to win.

I don’t want to move.

I don’t even want to be brave.

I don’t wash.

I don't eat

I don’t answer.

I don’t exist,

I hide away within the grey.

I become a quiet disappearing fog.

Curtains drawn like skin too sore to touch,

phone off,

heart off,

light off.

I stop pretending the tea helps.

Or that my journal listens.

Or that I know whose this body this really belongs to.

Because the truth,

the one I keep locked behind my teeth, is this:

Sometimes I want to burn.

Not cry, not scream—

just quietly

burn

until the weight is ash

and the air

forgets my name.

And no one sees that version of me.

Not even me,

sometimes I don’t know who I am

beneath the coping.

Beneath the plans, the routines,

but when I come back.

I put the mask on—

the walking, tea-drinking, face-oiled,

hair brushed, teeth cleaned,

sun-chasing

me!.

I call her survival.

I call her healing.

I let her speak.

But underneath—

I am not always strong.

I am not always someone I know.

And the fight?

It’s not always a victory.

Sometimes it’s just

a breath

in the dark,

saying

still here.

These are the things i can't say out loud,

theses aren't the words anyone wants to hear.

these are the words i fear the most, the truth.

we hide the truth to save the hurt.