The silence isn't empty, it's just… full of everything unsaid. the words i chew on instead of speaking. like my teeth are a graveyard for conversations never had. what grows in graveyards anyway? weeds. bitterness. is that what i'm cultivating here, in this quiet space between her breaths and mine? new leaf on the rose bush, i saw that, but… what about the weeds? do i just let them choke everything else? It's like holding a thousand tiny birds in your hands, each one a thing I want to say, but squeezing too hard and feeling them go still. I used to think I was protecting everyone else by keeping quiet, but now I see I was just protecting myself from the possibility of not being liked. The birds are all dead now, and all that's left is feathers and bones.