Writers 
The Weight of Things Not Said
My chest has a drawer that I carry.
Not for clothes.
for the sentences.
The ones I swallowed.
The ones that I practiced in the shower
and let die while getting to your door.
“Are you mad at me?”
“I’m scared I’m not enough.”
“Thank you for staying on the days I was hard to love.”
They sit folded, corners sharp.
They do not get smaller with time.
They become heavier.
I told myself that being silent was kind.
That silence would preserve harmony.
But peace built on quiet
is just noise holding its breath.
And I'm sick of breathing that way.
So today I open the drawer.
I take each one out into the light
and pay attention to how they appear
when they are not afraid.
Some are soft.
Some are clumsy.
Some have been waiting so long
they’ve forgotten how to sound like me.
I continue to practice.
I say them to the mirror first.
toward the empty seat.
to the image of you I have in my head:
and consistently responds better than the real person.
Then I say them to the sky.
to the driver of the bus.
To the dog that doesn’t care about my grammar.
I'm instructing my mouth.
that truth does not have to be a weapon.
It might be a bridge.
There will be spills.
words that don't sound right.
words that are released too late.
Words that break something
so something real can be built.
That is okay.
I am discovering that unspoken
do not disappear.
They make peace.
in the shoulders.
In sleep.
In the way I flinch when someone asks, “What’s wrong?”
So I am choosing the other kind of heavy.
The lengthy statement.
the weight of knowing someone.
The possibly heavy of
I might lose some people.
I might also locate them.
Those who adhere to my sentences
with their own.
Tonight I close the drawer.
It is not empty.
But it is lighter.
And my chest has more room
for air,
for the morning,
for the next true thing
I'll let go at last.
