Writers 
What We Don't Say Out Loud
In this household, we speak another language, made of spoons not clinking,
of doors closed with the palm, not the fingers,
of "I'm fine" that means "don't ask again."
I learned it at twelve.
By fifteen, I was fluent.
I got sick of doing my own translations by the age of 22. back to myself.
There is a list in my head titled "Things I Swallowed":
I thanked him for his comment that I was too sensitive. I pretended not to hear her crying in the kitchen once. The time I wanted to say "I am scared here" and said "I am tired" instead.
We keep a mat at the door for wiping feet,
However, we actually keep it for concealing things from guests. There is no key in the key. It is a question.
If you leave a way out, does it mean you never belonged?
My friend in Yaba says, "A spare key is just trust with edges."
While sweeping, I consider that. Trust with edges still cuts if you hold it too tight.
Tonight, the house is doing its usual performance.
Television loud enough to cover conversation.
Plates passed without eye contact.
The air conditioner humming like a tired choir.
I go to the door. I get the mat up. The blue is duller now. The 7 is bleeding into the plastic,
like how a tattoo ages with its body. It is not required to open anything for me. I need it to be evidence.
I made a plan that time despite my fear. That once, I loved this house and I still knew how to leave it.
I put the key in my pocket.
It makes no noise.
Some truths are like that.
They don't need to announce themselves to be true.
They just need to be carried.
