I Contain More

I’ve tried 

for two days now

to write a poem 

about what it felt like 

when I lived Silent. 


I still have 

muscle memory 

of the years

when I held it all in,

bit my tongue, 

and clenched my jaw

tight enough 

to grind my teeth down

until they cracked. 

(No, this is not a metaphor.)


But every time 

I sit down to write that poem,

that’s not the poem that comes.


For I am

not Silent 


I can’t,

I won’t 

slip silently backward

into that small,

airless box



It turns out 

I contain more 

than just one story. 


And I’d rather be out

here in this field

with you instead.