Things I Never Say

I carry rooms inside me

where no one’s ever been.

Windows shuttered,

air thick with things

I don’t have the courage to speak.

I smile in photographs

like a person should,

but my hands ache

from holding back

the weight of words

that claw at my throat

in the dark.

I love people

who don’t notice

when I leave the room,

Some days,

I dream of disappearing

into a place

where my name isn’t a lifeline

or a weapon,

where no one says,

“You’re so strong,”

as if it’s a compliment

and not a life sentence.

I envy the soft ones.

The ones who cry

when they need to,

who don’t apologize

for being too much

or not enough.

I wonder what it feels like

to shatter

without cleaning up the pieces

before anyone notices.

I want to be loud.

I want to be ugly.

I want to say

I’m not okay

without dressing it up

in a joke

or a clever metaphor.

But I’ve spent years

being the steady hand,

the quiet nod,

the fixer of heavy hearts

and broken plans.

And if I stop—

who picks up the mess?

That’s the lie

I keep feeding myself

so I don’t have to find out.

But tonight,

in this small, unlit corner

of the page,

I’ll admit it:

I’m tired.

And maybe that’s enough

for now.