Unspoken

What tears the soul is not the blade,
but knowing what we chose to keep.
Regret, by softer hands conveyed,
lies buried underneath the deep.

We hoard the shards we should release,
and polish what we should forget.
Then pray for clarity or peace,
while tethered tight to old regret.

A cry is not the end of pain—
it is the mark that pain was heard.
It does not cleanse, it leaves a stain,
a message softened into word.

The ache endures because we hid
the wound too long from light and breath.
Now truth, once quiet, lifts the lid—
and love must mourn what guilt called death.

We cannot mend what will not speak,
nor heal the fault we won’t confess.
But still, the soul, though cracked and weak,
may rise beneath the weight of less.