The Thing I Never Say

There’s a version of me

that only visits in silence—

when the lights are off,

and the world is too tired to listen.

That’s when I begin to exist

in full.

I carry laughter

like armor

but some nights,

it rusts.

I want to say,

I’m scared that nothing I do

will ever be enough.

That I could give my whole soul

and still be…

forgettable.

That love,

the kind I write about,

might never land

in my hands—

not because it doesn’t exist,

but because I don’t know

how to hold it

without shaking.

Sometimes,

I envy the people

who cry in public.

Their wounds look

less like weakness

and more like

honesty.

I want to scream,

Look at me.

No, not the version

I perform.

The one that flinches

when someone says “forever”

because everything I’ve touched

eventually leaves.

I rehearse joy

like a role in a play—

convincing,

but not quite mine.

And I want to ask,

Is it normal

to feel like a ghost

in a room full of people

who love you?

I want to admit,

I miss people

who never even knew

the real me—

because I was too afraid

to show them.

I never say these things

because I’m afraid they’ll echo—

and someone will hear them

and say,

“me too.”

And that might just

break me.

But maybe,

maybe in the breaking,

I’d finally be

real.