the sadness i don't say

I couldn’t admit it out loud— how sad I am. I’ve built strength like armor, a backbone forged in steel. But saying I’m sad steals the air from the room. It dries up the oxygen, tightens my chest, closes my throat until I shut down again. This sadness lives behind my eyes, waiting quietly each day. It only shows when someone looks too closely— or when the mask slips. Why are you sad? Well, of course I’m not. Except—I am. It’s the kind of sadness that defies reason: the everyday ache, the weight of what was, and what might have been. It consumes quietly, completely. And hiding it from you— that’s what undoes me. You, who carry strength I can’t fathom. You, who hold my world steady even when I can’t. But yes— I am sad. My steel spine trembles at the truth, my shoulders fold inward, my mind wrecked by memories that refuse to stay buried.