Sometimes
I feel like every sentence I speak
is a small accident.
A word misplaced,
a tone slightly wrong,
a pause that stretches too long
until the room fills with misunderstanding.
And when I stay silent,
that too becomes a mistake.
Silence grows heavy—
as if people can hear
all the things I failed to say
pressing against my chest.
So I stand somewhere
between speaking and not speaking,
knowing either way
I might get it wrong.
The strange part is
how quickly doubt multiplies.
One awkward moment
becomes a story in my head—
that maybe I am the problem,
that maybe my thoughts
arrive in the world
a little broken.
And the more I feel this,
the harder it becomes
to find the words at all.
Feelings fold into themselves
like letters never sent.
My voice retreats
to a quiet corner of my mind.
Until even explaining the silence
feels impossible.
So I carry it—
this careful, invisible weight—
hoping one day
the right words
will arrive gently,
and stay.
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