Silence
It sounds like a meaningless word—
something we're told to embrace when it's inconvenient or untimely.
It's what we were taught to do with these overwhelming feelings,
the expected sound of a house at night, undisturbed,
what we're commanded to maintain when family crises unfold.
It feels suffocating.
This constricting sensation when you desperately ache to speak,
burning in my throat like a persistent cough,
drowning me until I can't surface for air.
I choke, suffocating in what should be my sanctuary.
I touch the beads in a stuffed animal that weighs it down,
preventing it from rising.
Those beads are so small, yet when gathered together
they accumulate and anchor a person to the depths.
They weigh on my chest like a heavy push from the soft pillow I cling to.
It can look like dead eyes that have seen too much and simply choose not to see.
It also is a fake smile so sharp it cuts you when you witness it.
Sometimes the person hurts so much, the face becomes emotionless.
Or it comes in tears that continue to pour like an angry thunderstorm or a broken faucet.
It might hurt so much you sit counting the bumps on a wall or ceiling.
I taste the bitter salt of my unshed tears that I hold back just for appearance's sake.
It is sour like candy that's too **** and burns my mouth.
It can be sweet that turns too pungent as you let a lie linger in your mouth one minute too long.
It can be salty like over-salted food that you eat because telling the person the food is bad would be too much.
Silence is multifaceted—complex and contradictory.
It can be negative, consuming us like a black hole that devours light and hope.
Or it can be positive, warming us like sunlight when we finally step outside after being confined indoors.
Silence holds different meanings for different people.
We must learn to respect a person's chosen silence while also finding the courage to break the oppressive silence that may have become our norm.