Words I Never Said Aloud

I rehearsed
a thousand times.

In my head.
In the dark.
When no one was listening.

The words
they had shape,
they had weight,
but never wings.

I wanted
to say them.
To release them.

But fear
tightened my throat
like a fist.

What if they laughed?
What if they left?
What if they never came back?

So I kept quiet.
Swallowed truth.

Let it sink
into my chest
like cold stone.

And people said,
“You’re always so calm.”
“You never talk much.”
“You’re strong.”

But inside
was a war
between what I felt
and what I feared.

Now I write
what I could never speak.

Now I bleed
without noise.

Now I wait
for someone
who hears silence
and understands
it was never empty.