Things I Swallowed Instead of Saying

 

• I’m not difficult, I’m exhausted from pretending I’m okay.
• Your silence always screamed louder than my honesty.
• Every time you said “calm down,” I buried a scream in my ribs.
• You touched me like a habit, not like a choice.
• I memorized the way you look when you lie—do you know what that does to a person?
• I never wanted to be the strong one, I wanted to be held without shattering.
• You called me dramatic, but I was bleeding in places your eyes never visited.
• I shrank so you could feel taller. I apologized when you hurt me. I made space for your absence.
• I saw the red flags and picked them anyway—sewed them into a cape and called it love.
• I used to pray you’d come back. Now I just pray I never need that kind of poison again.

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I’ve bitten back entire storms.

I’ve swallowed flames just to keep the peace.

But tonight?

I’m coughing up ash.

And I’m not sorry.