I say,
“It’s nothing.”
And hope it stays small.
But sometimes,
it spills.
Not a leak—
a flood,
rising in my chest
until my silence
becomes sound.
I learned to hold it in
so no one would worry,
so they wouldn’t see
what I barely understood myself.
Because if I name it,
I have to feel it.
And if I feel it,
maybe it won’t leave.
But it does.
Eventually.
Slowly.
Like a tide receding
after the storm.
And I’m still here.
Soft.
A little shaken.
But still here.
-The Soft Witness