I’ve mastered the art of almost saying things. I’ve choked on truths like pills too big to swallow and told myself, _“You’re fine. You’ll feel better in the morning.”_ I didn’t. I’ve laughed when I should’ve screamed. Bit the inside of my cheek to taste anything other than shame. I’ve held “I miss you” in my mouth until it turned bitter. Until it sounded like “it’s whatever” through my teeth. I’m good at pretending. Good at walking into rooms like my name doesn’t echo behind me. Good at making eye contact without making a scene. But god I’m tired of carrying words like they’re fragile. Of folding myself into palatable paragraphs so people can read me without getting uncomfortable. I’ve learned silence can be a shield or a cage. And I’m not sure which one I’m in anymore. I’ve prayed without moving my lips. Held grudges like family heirlooms. Whispered hope into cracked windows because I couldn’t say it to anyone’s face. I’ve never told my mother I forgive her. I’ve never told myself I deserve it too. I’ve never told my mirror anything kind without cringing.