“Between Saying and Being Heard“

I start with thoughts as they rise,

       lacking polish,

              unencumbered by softening,

before the world even asks them to dress

       for company.

Some days I want to speak it straight

—just the shape it arrived in,

   the first spark of a thing

   still warm from its source,

   not yet glancing sideways

   to see who’s listening.

But then there’s the other pull:

the sense that a word won’t travel far

     unless it’s steadied,

        angled,

given a surface someone else

can place their hand on

   —a bridge that could be crossed

      from both directions,

      and still hold its form

      on the way across.

Not decoration,

just enough structure

to keep it from faltering

as it moves.

And I stand between these two urges,

holding the sentence like a fragile tool,

wondering whether to keep it close

or send it outward.

Because to speak only for myself

is a kind of shelter,

and to speak so another can meet me

is a kind of risk.

So, I do what I’ve always done:

shape the truth just enough

that it can leave the room

without losing its centre,

      but not so much

            that it forgets where it came from.

.