There are things I don’t write about
because I don’t know where they belong.
They exist, just not out loud and not definable.

I tell myself that not everything needs a name.
I try to believe that.

But once it lives in my head long enough,
my heart starts asking questions I didn’t invite.

Is it not worth naming? Or am I not worth naming?

Others are quick to notice what isn’t there.
To ask their questions.
To decide what the silence must mean.

I don’t know if leaving it unnamed
is restraint or erasure.

I just know it stays with me.
Quiet. Unresolved.

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