The Unspoken

Nobody talks about the aftermath—

the paralyzing echo of silence.

Nobody mentions the panic,

welling up like cold, muddy groundwater

around her bare ankles.

Or the slow squeeze of unseen talons,

clutching her heart in the ache of not knowing what lies ahead.

Nobody speaks of the clean-up—

the careful hands gathering the shards

of a shattered vase,

a thing that, no matter how tenderly mended,

never holds the same worth.

Nobody warns of the rinse and repeat—

the flashbacks stitched into every street,

every song, every breath.

Or the deafening drumbeat inside her,

paralyzing on the worst of days.

Nobody talks about the confusion,

the erosion of all trust,

the aching suspicion that all feeling itself

might be lost forever.

Instead, they call her difficult to love,

too much work to hold.

Yet she still bends to admire

a tiny purple flower,

boldly blooming through fractured concrete,

lifting its face to the sun.

But nobody understands how hard it was

for that little flower,

amidst the weeds,

to find a safe place to root.

And maybe, just maybe, she thinks—

I, too, will learn to love again.

If a flower, untended,

unloved, and alone,

can break open the earth to find the light,

then perhaps I can, too.