Unspoken
There are whole conversations
I have with myself
that never reach the air,
things I would like to say
but do not.
I imagine saying the words aloud,
watch the room shift,
watch a face change.
I rehearse the aftermath
and decide against it.
Some truths are sharp.
There are things and people I detest.
There are sorrows and angers
that weigh me down,
but what would be repaired
by their release?
My fears would not disappear
under someone's examination.
My sadness or anger would not shrink
because of being named out loud.
Those I detest would not
become more likeable.
No one is holding the missing piece
that could make it all better.
No one carries a magic answer
for what lives inside me.
Most often it feels wiser
to let the storm pass
without commentary.
So I keep the silence
not as surrender
but as restraint,
guarding others
from the weight
of what I carry inside,
guarding myself
from having to explain
the unexplainable,
knowing nothing
would change with
the sharing.
Instead, I move
to another place.
I open a book
and step into someone else’s weather.
Or I walk my trail or
work out in the gym
until my breath drowns out thought,
until my feelings turn
into muscle and motion
and all is good.
The unspoken remains—
not gone,
only set aside
in the dark of my mind,
where even I may forget
what I meant to say.
Written for my prompt at "What's Going On? -- Unspoken
