Held

it’s just a thought.
One small idea.
Barely formed.

Something I swallow
because it’s easier
than explaining again.

It sits behind the teeth.
Under the tongue.
Polite.
Contained.

I tell myself:
“It’s almost time.”
That the silence will stop.
That waiting
doesn’t cost anything.

The world loves
this version of me.
The quiet one.
The reasonable one.
The one who understands
the process.

So I wait.

And while I wait
the voice doesn’t disappear –
it presses.

It becomes a weight in the chest.
Tightness.
A current
looking for a way through.

Because a voice
cannot be paused
without consequence.

What happens instead
is that it flows inward.
Every unspoken word
adds pressure.
Every delayed answer
raises the waterline.

Still,
they don’t hear it.

They say I’m calm.
They say I’m coping.
They say
nothing looks wrong.

They mistake restraint
for consent.

But silence is not empty.

It is stored.

And one day
the banks give way.

What comes next
is not rudeness.
Not drama.
Not lack of control.

It is a river
returning to its course.

It is everything
that was held back
moving all at once.

And if it sounds like a roar,
if it shakes the room,
if it makes people uncomfortable –

Good.

Rivers were never meant
to apologise.