The Things We Don't Talk About

I Heard My Trauma Through the Grapevine

I'm so tired but I can't go to sleep.
All of these thoughts are killing me.
Does it really matter? I'm afraid I don't know.
Did it really happen if the scars don't show?

I'm striving for skin and bones, feigning ignorance as I hear my stomach growl.
I lie here, half a human, lost and exhausted
with half a mind to end this ruthless game like you deserve.
...Damn. When did those vengeful voices get so loud?

You know? Your "help" sounds a lot like shaming.
And you know? Your "concern" feels a lot like you blaming me.
I'm sorry I'm not happy; it's such a terrible thing to hear, I know.
But to be perfectly candid, hun, it's not about you.

You sit and wonder, pester, and ponder why it was such a big secret
while I lie here in the dark, wishing I chose to keep it.
You, who's always sharing what isn't yours,
yet you still wonder why you were kept in pitch black darkness,

kept away from the sealed documents with all the sensitive information.
What did you think would happen after your history of treating my life and trauma and internal wars
like folklore to feed to all the busybody sharks
by the water cooler, waiting for the clock to strike five?

Loose lips sink ships and you sunk me
all the while guilt tripping me into saying, "Sorry. I should've trusted you."
And now, as I lie here unable to fall asleep, I know I can't trust anyone if I can't trust you.
Thank you—I guess?—for letting me know what future secrets I should keep. (All of them.)

And you can spin the story anyway you want, just like the webs you spun;
it's not worth the fight because I know from experience, in your unchanging mind, you're always right.
And I'm so tired, so I'm going to sleep.
Good night.

Maybe goodbye. We'll play it by ear.
But if I disappear, you can act like a victim and pretend you don't know why,
but we'll both know the truth.
Fortunately for you, I can keep a secret...unlike you.