I have never stuttered in pen
misspoken in ink
or choked in my writing
the way I do
whenever I speak
my fingertips always know
the right words to say
my tongue is still learning

The things left unsaid
are usually more hurtful
than things left
unthought
(Ask me how I know).

It's the things left unsaid
that eat into the light
of your usually
big heart
(Ask me how that feels).

It's the things (I) left unsaid
that leave you (who says them)
in a quiet little space
(unaware)
that I'm not as good
as you're trying to convince
everyone that I'm not.

Everyone talks about how beautiful it is
to be shining with life, to have a slight glow
to be walking with joy, just starting to show.

Friends will all smile and will all want to know
(just like your family) the date and the gender;
If it's a girl, your beauty you'll lend her
but if it's a boy your body will surrender.

They all have a story, a fun little tale
but none have the cure for
the all-day-long hell.

But here's the first secret
I have learned on my own:

I love this sweet baby despite how it's grown.

On the days that I can't
even roll over in bed without
an internal sigh so deep
it would rival the heave of
the shuddering earth
and you ask me why
dinner is still cooking and
the drier is fluffing and
the dishes are crusting
and the dust is still lying
and my lashes are bare
and my hair is unkempt
as the sheets on the bed...
On these days when
I go to work anyway
before you wake up and
I get home after you
(you're sleeping on the couch)
and pick up after you
and serve myself after you
and you still think to ask
about the undone things that
your eyes see so well...
On these days with
these questions and that
look in your eyes
it's all I can do
to set my jaw,
smile,
and say:
"I just haven't..."