You carry it well,
like a fistful of nails in your throat—
but who am I to mention the blood?
We all drink the same goddamn poison
and call it different names.
Yours might be ambition,
mine’s more like shame,
but it burns just the same
on the way down.
Every morning feels like peeling back
a scab you need to keep,
because without the wound
what the hell were you suffering for?
(You lace your coffee with silence.
You iron your shirts with guilt.
You tell yourself the ache in your bones
is just the weather.)
But we both know it’s the weight
of everything you never said,
stacked like wet towels
in the corner of your ribcage—
and somehow
you keep adding more.
I watch you cough up excuses
like you’re proud they still fit in your mouth.
(“It’s fine.”
“I’m just tired.”
“It’s not that bad.”)
You could drown a village
with the flood behind your tongue.
And maybe you should.
Maybe then someone would notice
that you’re more storm
than structure.
More aftermath
than man.
But no—
you keep sewing yourself shut
with fishing wire and old receipts,
call it healing,
call it growth,
call it whatever the fuck makes it quieter.
Just don’t call it truth.
Because truth
would taste like copper
and come out screaming.
But you’re not ready for that, are you?
No one is.
We’d rather choke politely
on the things we can’t digest
than admit
we’ve been feeding on
scraps of ourselves
for years.