I carry storms I never talk about,
Suitcases packed with silence and doubt.
Unspoken pain I've left to rot,
Old wounds screaming, "heal me" — I do not.
There are demons I pretend I've slain,
But they haunt my nights just the same.
Missed calls blinking on my phone,
And relatives who feel like strangers I've known.
I've said things I wish I could rewind,
Left scars with words I should've left behind.
Some doors I locked with no intent to reopen,
And bridges in ash, from truths unspoken.
But maybe healing starts with owning the mess,
Naming each ache I've tried to suppress...
And finding peace in the weight I confess.