If I Spill

I am duct tape. I am staples. I’m the glue stick your teacher swears is “non toxic,” but I swear I’m poisoning myself just holding everything together. My skin is a diary with no pen, my throat a vault that never opens. Every secret I keep is a weight on my chest, like I’m carrying bricks in my lungs, breathing mortar and silence. If I spill- just one truth, just one sharp edged syllable, everything I’ve built will collapse. Friendships, family, the version of me they think they love. All of it- gone. Doctors, therapists, they look at me like a puzzle. If I hand them the missing piece, they’ll lock me away. Four walls. White sheets. A place where I’m safe- but never better. A place where they keep me from falling apart by taking away the parts of me that still matter. I’m screaming in silence. I’m bleeding without cuts. I’m smiling while drowning. I’m shaking while still. And I don’t know who I am anymore. A daughter? A liar? A manipulator? A survivor? Or just a ghost haunting my own skin, waiting to burst at the seams, waiting to finally spill- and praying nobody drowns when I do.