Heavy Frustration

I carry conversations I never start,

they sit behind my teeth,

pressed flat like folded letters

I swear I’ll mail one day.

The words are there

they crowd my chest at night,

they practice speeches in the dark,

they line up perfectly when I’m alone.

But the moment someone I love asks,

“Are you okay?”

everything scatters.

It shouldn’t be this hard

to speak to the people

who know my laugh,

who recognize my footsteps,

who could probably finish my sentences

if I let them.

But closeness doesn’t always mean safety

sometimes it just means

the fall would hurt more.

I’m afraid of being misunderstood,

of watching my truth

get reshaped by someone else’s fears.

Afraid my honesty will sound like complaint,

or weakness,

or worse

like I’m asking for too much.

So I shrink my feelings into something manageable,

something bite-sized and polite.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m just tired.”

“It’s nothing.”

I say these things so often

they start believing themselves.

Inside, though, it’s loud.

It’s the sound of wanting to be seen

without having to explain every scar.

It’s the ache of knowing

I could say everything

and still not feel heard.

I rehearse vulnerability

like a performance I might cancel.

I stand at the edge of honesty,

toe curled over the line,

and tell myself

not today.

Because today already asked too much of me.

What hurts most

is knowing the people I love

would probably listen

yet my throat tightens anyway.

Trust isn’t a switch,

it’s a muscle that gets sore

when it’s been stretched wrong before.

I’ve learned that silence can be armor.

Heavy.

Restrictive.

But protective all the same.

If I keep it on,

no one can poke the bruises

and call it healing.

Still, I get lonely

standing in rooms full of familiar faces,

smiling with practiced ease,

wondering how close you can be to someone

before the distance becomes unbearable.

I don’t want to be dramatic.

I don’t want to be a burden.

I just want to be real

without feeling like I have to apologize for it.

Some days, I almost open up.

The words rise

raw, imperfect, brave

and then fear grabs them by the collar

and drags them back down.

Not because they’re wrong,

but because they matter.

Maybe one day

I’ll learn that being understood

doesn’t require perfection.

That the people who love me

aren’t waiting for a polished version

just a true one.

Until then,

I carry my unsaid truths carefully,

not because they’re weak,

but because they’re fragile.

And maybe that’s not failure

maybe it’s just the slow, aching work

of learning how to be open

without breaking myself in the process