You hold a story of me that is not mine,
the version that smiles,
makes polite conversation,
tells just enough truth
to keep you satisfied.
But you’ve never witnessed the war.
How I fight against the silence,
how it curls into my lungs
until breathing is tantamount to failure.
I wake some mornings
to the sound of me thinking my own thoughts,
too loud, too sharp,
examining...
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