I Didn’t Say That Out Loud

I didn’t say anything—

but I was scared.

I didn’t want to be there,

but I stayed.

-

When the blinding light hit my face—

the flush beneath my cheeks burned hotter,

I couldn’t see a single person,

but I knew they were there.

Waiting.

Cats watching the mouse trapped in glass.

Amused.

Entertained.

Satisfied.

And then they left.

-

And I cried myself to sleep

trying to pick up pieces of myself I had lost,

in a room that suddenly felt unfamiliar,

with a person who suddenly felt unfamiliar,

and a heart I didn’t know how to hold.

-

I didn’t say

how long I fought to keep my innocence—

held it like a thread between my fingers,

tired but determined.

But the world doesn’t always steal with force.

Sometimes it asks for little pieces,

again and again,

until one day

you realize your hands are empty,

and you don’t even remember

if it slipped away

or you let go.

-

I’ve said things

only between heavy breaths—

words meant for no one,

spoken into empty rooms

because no one ever listened.

-

Whispers,

when nothing felt soft.

Only the tension

before it snaps—

-

Then the quiet that grows teeth,

and roars through the house at night,

chasing down the hallway.

Violence,

finding you in sleep.

-

As a child,

I was told to be quiet.

As a woman,

I was expected to stay small.

-

So I became someone

who obeyed more than I spoke,

who didn’t ask the questions

because no one ever answered,

and no one asked me any, either.

-

I became someone

who filled silences

with too many words

that meant nothing—

and still never said

the ones that did.

-

I didn’t say anything

when it came to me.

I buried myself beneath

the needs of everyone else.

If someone needed comfort,

I offered mine.

If someone needed space,

I disappeared.

-

They asked—

And they asked again—

And again—

and I gave it away.

That’s how I knew love.

-

For others?

I spoke without hesitation.

Loud.

Fierce.

Certain.

Obnoxious.

-

Not because I was brave—

but because someone had to be.

Because silence had already done enough damage.

Because I knew what it felt like

to be quiet when I wanted to be loud.

-

I have always protected people—

but I never learned to protect myself.

I worked until I was sick,

and I didn’t say a word.

I smiled through exhaustion.

I made jokes through pain.

-

Even when the room felt sharp,

even when my chest tightened,

even when I thought

I might come apart at the seams

right there in front of them.

I smiled

and made it easier

for everyone else to breathe,

while I was suffocating.

-

I said I was fine—

maybe to convince myself.

Because that’s what strong people do,

right?

-

I didn’t say

how I watched the shadows settle

into people I loved too young,

how grief met us early,

and no one called it by its name.

Too many things no child should witness

folded quietly into their bones.

-

We didn’t talk about it.

We pretended

childhood was still ours to keep—

but the world forced us

to grow up too soon.

-

I didn’t say no

when I should have.

I bent myself into shapes

that didn’t belong to me.

And left my boundaries to be mangled

so others could stay comfortable.

-

I didn’t speak

until the silence became unbearable—

until I had to scream,

until I had to bleed

just to feel real again.

-

I don’t talk about

the darkness I carry—

the rooms inside me

I’ve kept locked.

I walk past them every day,

pretending they aren’t there.

-

Pretending the air doesn’t change

when I’m near them.

I’ve painted over their doors.

I’ve renamed them many times

in my messed-up little mind.

-

I lined them with steady words

and easy laughter,

folded in paper,

and shoved under the door.

-

No one ever asked

what was inside.

-

I have always had something to say.

But

I don’t say it out loud.