There's a storm behind my ribs
but the sky won't break.
I feel it swelling—
a pressure,
a hunger,
a grief with no exit.
My throat tightens,
but no sob comes.
My eyes sting,
but the tears betray me.
Like they're held hostage
by a past that taught me
feeling meant failure,
or danger,
or shame.
I want to fall apart,
but I stay upright—
a statue sculpted
from old survival.
People say,
"Let it out. Cry it out."
As if it were that easy.
As if the lock
didn't rust shut years ago.
Still,
I touch the ache.
I sit beside it.
I whisper,
It's okay. I'll stay silent...
Will someone wait until I'm ready to speak?
