Of course you didn't know that I was suddenly quiet.

Silence had become easier than explaining myself.

Words meant questions.

Questions meant answers.

And I had neither.

So I swallowed my words whole,

let them scrape my throat on the way down,

let them settle somewhere deep

where you couldn't reach them.

I kept my thoughts behind my teeth,

pressed my lips together,

smiled when I had to.

Anything was better than speaking.

Of course you didn't know that I was distant.

I started disappearing without actually leaving.

I sat in rooms full of people and made myself small enough to feel invisible.

Messages piled up.

Hours piled up.

Days piled up.

I watched your name light up my screen and let it fade.

I was there.

But some part of me had already gone somewhere I couldn't follow.

Of course you didn't know that I wasn't okay.

I still laughed.

God, I laughed.

I became louder when I was hurting,

funnier when I was falling apart.

I made jokes when the room got quiet,

said stupid things just to hear somebody laugh.

I knew how to make a room lighter

while carrying something heavy inside.

So I performed.

I smiled.

I joked.

I acted wimpy and crazy.

And nobody looked too closely.

Why would they?

I was the girl making everyone laugh.

Of course you didn't know that I was tired.

I could sleep for hours and still wake up feeling tired.

Tired in the morning,

tired at night,

tired of saying I was alright.

I became everybody's safe place

while having nowhere safe to fall.

I listened to their problems,

held their worries carefully,

reassured them until they could breathe again.

Then I carried my own home alone.

Their pain had somewhere to go.

Mine stayed.

It followed me into my room,

sat beside me in the dark,

waited until everyone was gone.

Then it became loud.

Of course you didn't know what was happening to me.

I hated the word depressed.

It sounded too serious.

Too real.

So I kept dressing it up.

Called it tiredness.

Called it stress.

Called it overthinking.

Anything but what it was.

Anything that sounded smaller.

Anything I could explain away.

But it wasn't small.

It was always there.

It ruined my sleep.

Sat heavy on my chest.

Followed me from room to room.

And I got good at hiding it.

Good at smiling over it.

Laughing over it.

Calling it nothing.

Until I got tired of hiding.

Tired of swallowing words

that were already hurting my throat.

And maybe that's what I wanted.

Someone to reach into all that silence

and pull the truth out of me.

Kiss my pain so passionately

that I forget it was ever something

I had to hide.

Hold my silence until it breaks.

Ruin me gently.

Let your fingers find every place

I learned to keep untouched.

Trace every crack beneath my laughter.

Press against every bruise I buried under my skin.

Peel me open.

Until every word I swallowed

comes crawling back out.

Let them scrape my throat again.

Let them sting.

Let them burn.

I don't care.

Just don't let them stay inside me.

Learn me.

Learn the pauses.

The flinches.

The sudden laughter.

The way I say "I'm fine"

when I mean anything but.

Obsess over what I don't say.

Pay attention to the silence between my words.

Count the seconds before I answer.

Notice when my smile comes too quickly.

Look closer.

Closer.

Until there is nowhere left

for me to disappear.

And if you ever get close enough

to see what I've been hiding,

don't make me regret letting you in.

Don't ask me to explain everything.

Don't ask why I stayed quiet for so long.

Just sit with me.

Let me be ugly for once.

Let me cry without making a joke out of it.

Let me say I'm not okay

without rushing to make it okay.

Stay until the girl behind the laughter

has nothing left to pretend.

Stay until I don't have to say it.

Stay until you know.

Me.