unsaid.

The weight of unsaid words pulled my throat, tightened the smile that stretched across the history of what I had not said. The agreements I had made in my life, to fit into the world in a million small adjustments, meant that what I needed to say waited.

Sometimes when I was alone, I would speak in a whisper what I wished I could say. The practicing of truth a small nudge in the direction of the dream to live out loud.

I lived in a waiting room of sorts, looking to heal the perpetual sore throat and tight neck of a middle life, when I already knew how.

It takes one small truth to begin, not the scariest one to start, the one closest to the surface. One slight collection of words at the top of the throat, just to say those, begins to loosen the rest.

And so I tried to speak them, just a few, and not about anyone else; the truth was never for them, it was always for me. Because truth is not to be narrated to someone else, it isn’t about what you think their truth is, that’s too easy, and it’s never really accurate. Offering what you honestly think about someone else isn’t the truth, it’s wiping off a mirror to what you want to say about your own tender self.

The truth of your own unsaid words is this; they are the boundaries waiting to be set, the no to replace the yes you didn’t want to say, they are the straightening of a backbone bowed under the weight of other peoples expectations.

This is what I now know; throats hurt and necks tighten under the power those unsaid words hold, and that power is ready and waiting. The courage to say here’s what I never said, and what I’d like to try to say now, this is the way to free.

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