Seen, Not Saved

You hold a story of me that is not mine, the version that smiles, makes polite conversation, tells just enough truth to keep you satisfied. But you’ve never witnessed the war. How I fight against the silence, how it curls into my lungs until breathing is tantamount to failure. I wake some mornings to the sound of me thinking my own thoughts, too loud, too sharp, examining every small detail I could’ve done differently. They don’t teach you how to shed shame, how to stop staring at yourself as if something needs to be repaired. You say, "Talk to me." But there’s no correct way to prepare that I do not wish to be saved— just sat with. Just seen. Without the expectation of putting myself into words.