Safety

in my words are where i feel safe. not the ones that come out of my mouth no. those fly like daggers from my forked tongue and clatter on the ground like a forgotten half-thought of something that could have been but never was. they’re either too loud or too soft and often are uttered so quickly you’ll need a map to find where my point was.

no.

i am only safe in the words i write on a page. in the early morning after a night of dreaming restlessly, tossing and turning while my soul begged to be released from its useless shell. in the lonely afternoons when my words are all that i have.

with these, i can express the utter joy i feel when i get a call and it’s his name. or the fact that i think i’ve always felt a certain degree of emptiness, a chemical imbalance of living in a body that wants nothing more than to eject me from it. in these, i could be talking about that cute puppy who lived next door to me, or the first time i saw a man put his hands on my mother and wondered if that’s what he meant when he said he loved her. away from the judgmental ears, i can speak of my hope, or lack thereof, for the fast-approaching future. how i’ve seen its beauty, its promise, and in it i’m alive. so i’m sorry mom.

i’m sorry that when i’m alone with you, im too quiet or all we talk about is the “artificial” things when my entire life has felt like the manufactured crap Mattel would sell. i’m sorry dad that i’m too loud but silence can only be contained for so long in a vessel that yearns to scream. with my words, i can yell all about that how his inconsistency was the death of me or whisper about how when her soft hands cupped my cheeks with a touch so tender and soft, i began to question if she was the reason those boys never seemed to fit.

i can make all the noise i want and still not make a sound. my heart can cry out but i will still be unheard. and in that,

I find my safety.