MargenThe things I didn't say moved in to live inside me and pay their rent in insomnia.
They're tidy, almost kind: they make no noise during the day, they wait until I turn off the light to start moving the furniture around.
There's one I've been rehearsing for years, the shortest one, the one that fit whole in a doorway the night I chose the cold of being right over the lukewarm risk of an open mouth.
Others I no longer know who I owed them to. They've turned generic, orphaned, words with no addressee that knock on every door of the chest and are recognised at none.
They say that speaking sets you free. I wouldn't know. I only know I carry a silent city inside me where everything I didn't say still lights up, every night, its small windows of reproach.