Things I Don’t Say

I want to be held

like a secret

not because I’m shameful—

but because I’m rare.

Because not everyone

should get to touch me.

I smile when I’m tired

so no one asks

what part of me died this time.

I say “I’m good”

but what I mean is—

I’m carrying seven versions of myself

and none of them are talking to each other.

Sometimes I replay old arguments

and win them,

then cry anyway

because the silence after the real one

was louder than the fight.

I get angry

when people love me halfway.

But I also flinch

when someone loves me whole.

There are days I want

to disappear—not to die,

but to be missed

without needing to explain why.

I look like I’ve healed.

But sometimes,

I still check the door

just to be sure

they really locked it behind them

this time.