Things I Learned Not To Name
I learned not to name
the things that stayed too long
inside my chest
because once you name something
it begins to ask for space
and I did not have enough
The city taught me this
with its loud mornings
and nights that never rested
I carried my dreams like loose change
in my pocket
they made noise when I walked
and people noticed
so I learned to walk softer
to keep my pockets still
There were days I swallowed words
until my throat felt crowded
like rush-hour buses
I watched others speak freely
their voices stretching
across rooms I never entered
At night, I counted losses
not people, not places
but versions of myself
the one who wanted too much
the one who believed
wanting was enough
Now, I keep my silence folded
neatly
like clothes I may never wear again
T