The Things I Never Say

I am the silence behind the smile,

the breath I hold as you leave the house.

Each goodbye a small gamble,

each door closing a question:

Will you come back whole?

I don’t speak of the edge I walk—

how your laughter lifts me

but your absence guts me.

I trace your faces in dreams,

and sometimes I wake up crying,

but say it was just a bad sleep.

I fear the phone ringing wrong,

the knock that’s too late,

a test failed,

a hand slipped from another’s grasp,

a moment turned tragedy

before I can blink.

I worry your hearts will break

in ways I can’t mend,

that love will leave you

and I’ll watch the light go out

behind your eyes

while pretending

it’s only a passing cloud.

I wonder if I missed life—

not the living,

but the feeling of living.

Did I walk past it

while doing dishes,

checking locks,

keeping peace?

I never got to speak to my father

with the honesty I saved for too long.

Now I talk to shadows

and wait for echoes

that never come.

Sometimes I look at my husband

and imagine the day his knees give out

and the light inside flickers,

and I scream his name in my mind

while I just ask if he wants more tea.

I carry money fears like loose wires,

sparking at night.

The calendar doesn’t lie—

years rush in,

and I am still counting

what’s left in the bank

and what’s left in me.

And this world—

so beautiful,

so brutal.

What if it breaks around us?

What if the war isn’t headlines

but our backyard?

But I smile.

I bake the cake.

I remind you of passwords,

bring the umbrella,

kiss your cheeks,

and say

Be safe.

Not because I don’t trust life,

but because I’ve seen

how fast it can turn its face.

This poem is the breath

I haven’t taken

in years.

A confession

stitched in ink,

because my voice

has always been

a little too afraid

to tremble aloud.