I tried to tell you.
So many times, 
with trembling hands
and a voice I barely held together.
But every word I let out
got twisted, shrunk, and mocked.

You called it “overreacting.”
Said I was “too emotional.”
Like feeling deeply was a flaw.
Like my pain was just a noise
you could tune out
because it didn’t come wrapped 
in calm tones and easy answers.

Do you know how it feels 
to choke on things you’re dying to say,
because you already know
they’ll roll their eyes
before the sentence even ends?

I’ve cried in silence
in rooms full of people
because being surrounded 
never meant being seen.
And the worst part?
I started believing them.

Started thinking maybe I was too much,
maybe I was the problem.
So I bit my tongue until it felt normal.
Smiled with a throat full of screams.
Learned how to disappear
while still standing right there.

I wasn’t asking for pity. 
I wasn’t trying to make it about me.
I just wanted someone–you--
to look at me and say,
“I get it. I’m here. I see you”

But you never did.
You only saw the mess.
You only saw the parts
that made you uncomfortable.

So now I hold it all.
The grief, the rage, the sadness.
I carry it in the quietest parts of me.
The ones you’ll never ask about.

And if I seem distant now,
If I don’t open up anymore–
just know:
I tried
And you taught me not to.

Kyra Johnson