People like me
don’t speak much—
we read silence
like it’s scripture,
watching the way shadows fall
on people’s faces
when truth gets too loud.

I learned early
that softness
gets mistaken
for weakness,
and honesty
for cruelty.

So I became
a quiet kind of storm—
rage in my ribs,
kindness in my palms,
resentment
sitting neatly behind my teeth.

Some days I’m tired
of pretending I don’t feel it all.
Of swallowing the world
just to keep peace
with people who
would never carry
a piece of me.

But I still stay quiet.
Because people like me
don’t speak much.
We bleed in poems.

I carry worlds within my chest,
silent storms I don’t confess.
A smile, a nod,a quiet plea,
hoping someone sees through me.

If you return,
do not knock,
the door has memorized your hands.

If you leave,
do not turn back,
the wind carries only forward.