I don’t write about people right away. I let them settle like silts at the bottom until they quiet down or seem like they no longer matter. Only when they rise again, unbidden, do I understand… It mattered. It stayed.
It takes me a while to write or even to speak. Even with the people I trust most, I still hold back. I think more than I say. I measure and sift every word. There are so many thoughts I keep to myself, so many feelings I push down until they’re too heavy to carry, I'll carry them and let them die with me.
And still, I try to be here. I come around to the ones who remain, to the ones who hold my hand without me having to explain what I feel. To the ones who hold my hand and read what I cannot say, feel the quiet tremor in my cold, clammy palms. And when I show up, I do so honestly with whatever I have, even if it isn’t everything.
If I’m going to be hurt, I’d rather it be swift… clean and certain than the slow unraveling of something I gave in good faith.