The Room I Never Let You In

I tell you I’m tired,

but not why.

Not that the ache is older than this year

a story in my spine since before I had words

for grief that wasn’t earned.

You ask, Are you okay?

and I shake my head like a puppet made of skin and worry,

mouth full of pleasantries,

while my insides hide a slow burning church

full of unsaid prayers and fire.

I never told you that some mornings

I wake up with my teeth clenched around screams

I don’t remember swallowing.

That my smile is a negotiation

a truce with a war I’m still losing.

I never say

I resent how easy you make joy look.

Or: I love you more than I should

but I am tired of translating myself

into a language you only half listen to.

I don't admit

that silence isn’t peace

it’s armor.

That when I laugh too loud at dinner

I’m trying to bury the sound

of my own undoing.

I want to tell you

how I sometimes imagine

disappearing like mist

not dramatically, just… unnoticed.

Like the extra chair you never sit in.

Like the thoughts that never leave your drafts.

But I stay

Because leaving would be

too obvious.

I say: It’s fine.

I say: Don’t worry about it.

I say: Let’s talk about something else.

And I build a house out of those phrases

brick by brick

until I’m walled in.

You never noticed the door

I never gave you the key.

But tonight

tonight, I am writing the hinges loose

with every syllable.

Because maybe if I say it here

softly enough

honestly enough

you will finally hear

the room I never let you in.

And maybe that will be

the start of

letting myself out.