THINGS YOU CAN'T SAY OUT LOUD

I say

“I’m fine”

so often,

it tastes like blood now.

I laugh

to distract you

from the tremble

in my hands.

I never told you—

I hate the silence,

but I hate being asked

what’s wrong

even more.

I rehearse my answers

like lies before a trial.

Smiles are cheaper

than explanations.

You said,

“You’re strong.”

I wanted to say—

Strength is just exhaustion

no one notices.

You never saw

the nights I didn’t sleep,

the mornings I begged

for the sun

not to rise.

I once stood in the shower

until the water ran cold,

just to feel

anything

that wasn’t me.

There are versions of me

I’ve buried

under jokes,

under makeup,

under noise.

Like the one

who writes messages

then deletes them.

The one who stares at doorways

like they’re exit wounds.

I never said:

I’m tired of being the one

people lean on—

my spine isn’t made of stone,

just years of practice.

I never said:

I want to be held

without being asked

what’s wrong.

I never said:

Some days,

I don’t know who I am

without the pretending.

And maybe

I never will.

So I write instead.

Softly.

Secretly.

Like this.

Because some truths

don’t survive being spoken—

but they live,

here.

Between the lines.