The weight of silence

There are words on the edge of my lips,

heavy, like stones in my pocket,

begging to be thrown,

to scatter,

to break the silence.

But I keep them there,

tied with threads of something like pride,

or maybe it’s fear—

or perhaps just the weight of knowing

some words don’t return

once they’ve left.

They dance in my mind,

these restless syllables,

sharp, alive, burning,

and it aches not to let them fly

from tongue to air,

not to paint them

across the world as I see it.

But here I stand,

a wall of silence,

with all that I won’t say,

all that I can’t say,

piling up inside.

There is beauty in honesty,

but sometimes beauty cuts too deep.

So I swallow the words,

carry them inside,

knowing that truth, kept quiet,

is the gentlest form of strength.