The Vault of Unsaid things

My ribs were never built to hold this much silence. Nobody tells you that when you build a vault inside your skin, You become the prisoner and the guard all at once. Every morning, I swallow the key Just to make sure nobody else can get in.

Step inside, and the air turns cold. First comes the Gallery of unswallowed apologies, Here, a dozen variations of “I’m sorry” sit on velvet cushions, Turning black from lack of air.

There are faces I should have begged for forgiveness, But pride was a wax seal across my lips, Holding my jaw shut until the regret was calcified.

Right beside them hang the heavy, misshapen weights Of all the times I should have said “No.” But my heart is a soft, dense, too emotional to draw a line, Too porous to keep myself from drowning in everyone else’s demands. So I said “Yes,” and added another brick to the wall.

Turn the corner, and you hit the draft. This is the Corridor of Unfinished Prayers. A long, narrow hallway where the ghosts of sentences wander, Whispers that never made it past the roof of my mouth,

Because, on some days, faith felt like an illegal currency. I didn’t think God would accept currency that are bruised, So I left the prayers half-dressed,

Shivering in the dark, Waiting for a holiness I couldn’t afford to feel.

Further down, past the pantry of rationed smiles And the archives of alternate endings, Is the deepest, darkest vault. The one I have spent a lifetime packing tight.

But here is the secret the vault never told me, Silence is expensive, It accumulates interest, And I have been living on borrowed time.

One of these days, the hinges are going to snap. The concrete will wither under the weight of everything I choked down, And these unsaid things will come crashing through the floorboards, Screaming, bleeding, demanding to be heard.

I can already hear the walls groaning under the pressure. So tonight, I look out at the world and I clap for the brave ones, The ones who spill their hearts, And never bother to clean up the mess. They are lighter than air. They are free. While I am just a building, waiting for the earthquake.