Yeah.

I don’t raise my voice,
I lower it.
I don’t make a point,
I corner it.
Same thoughts circling,
no exits.
Nothing said,
still felt it.

I been good.
I been gone.
I been holding weight too long.
Everybody think I’m calm—
I just don’t explain what’s wrong.

If I say less,
it mean more.
If I pause,
it’s not boredom.
Some pressure don’t crack loud—
it settles in the floorboards.

Nothing said, still felt.
Nothing broke, still dealt.
I don’t bleed where everybody else can tell.
Nothing said, still felt.
No alarm, no yells.
Some truths don’t ring—
they just sit on the shelf.

I don’t vent, I inventory.
Count scars like territory.
I don’t chase closure publicly,
I handle mine internally.
They read smiles like summaries—
never flip the page.
I been carrying quiet things
that don’t lighten with age.

If I’m quiet,
don’t assume I’m clear.
Some thoughts only get loud
when nobody’s near.

Nothing said, still felt.
Nothing lost, still held.
I don’t reach for hands
that don’t know the weight I dealt.
Nothing said, still felt.
I don’t need help.
I just need room
to let it sit with myself.

Still felt.