I wear my silence like a cloak,
heavy and wrapped around my shoulders,
not out of shame,
but of fear—
fear of what they will see
if I unveil the truth.
They will see the ghosts that linger
in the corners of my mind,
the shadows that whisper
of moments stolen,
time that fractured
into a million shards.
I fear their eyes,
wide with disbelief or pity,
how they will look through me,
not seeing a person,
but a puzzle with missing pieces,
a book with torn pages,
the edge of my story frayed.
I long for connections,
for laughter that dances
in the air between friends,
for the ease of being,
but the words,
those heavy, weighted words,
they scratch at my throat,
choking on the truth
that turns into poison
when inked out loud.
What if they turn away,
if the cracks in my facade
spill forth too much?
Will they tiptoe around my heart,
carefully avoiding,
as if I am a fragile vase,
one bump away from shattering,
one slip of the tongue
enough to send me back,
to the dark hallways of my past?
I hold my breath,
a diver beneath a weight
of unspoken stories,
wondering if the surface
will hold a truth too heavy
for others to bear.
Why would they stay,
if all they see is the aftermath,
the echo of a battle fought inside,
the scars hidden beneath the skin—
not like badges, but reminders
of what was taken and twisted?
They will remember my silence,
not out of compassion,
but as a reminder
of what they cannot fathom,
the darkness that blooms
in the back of their minds,
a fear that lingers
long after they leave.
In the end, I choose my words carefully,
building walls thicker than steel
to guard my spirit,
to protect the fragile pieces
of who I still am—
a woman, a fighter,
a soul longing for light,
who just wants to be seen
for what I am,
not what happened.
Perhaps one day,
the weight will lift,
and I will speak out
like a bird breaking from its cage,
but until that day comes,
I whisper my truth to the stars,
and let the universe know,
I am still here,
still whole,
still fighting to reclaim my story
without the shadows chasing me down.
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