Held Back

A tongue sheathed wields weight heavier than any swung sword. I learned to tuck my knives behind my teeth, to swallow silence—make it my armor, until my own words tasted bitter, cold as iron. There was a time I wanted to tell you how I could break— but truth isn't a gift, it's a weapon in the wrong hands. I remember that night at the kitchen table, your eyes soft, waiting for my answer. I wanted to show you the cracks you'd made, but I pressed my lips tighter until they hurt—I couldn't risk the violence of my words. Pressed lips became a gate, my voice, the fortress— a stone wall, no friendly opening.