Do you have a place where you can speak the unspeakable?
I ask because there are chambers inside all of us, dark, secret vaults where we lock the memories that cut too deeply to touch. Where do you take your battles, the near-unendurable heaviness of a mind turned against itself? Do you wander through the hollow rooms of your past, where your own reflection refuses to meet your gaze, afraid of what it might reveal?
I grew up in a house where silence was louder than any scream. Where love, if you could call it that, came twisted, like a vine wrapped tight around my throat. But no one tells you that you can drown in love too, suffocate under the weight of what should have been safe. How do you speak of a childhood where you were the ghost in your own home, where the hand that should have held you was the one that bruised you instead?
There are things I have buried so deep I forget where the bodies lie. But they surface in dreams, in moments I can’t control—like shadows that crawl under my skin. Is there a place for those stories? A room where you can strip yourself bare and stand before the world, raw and ugly, and not be told to put yourself back together for their comfort?
I don’t know if I have that place.
Maybe we carve it out, word by word, scream by scream, shaping our own sanctuary from the chaos. Maybe we never find it, and the unspeakable stays locked behind our ribs, a prison made of flesh and bone.
But still, I write—because silence has never been salvation. I pray and I don’t stop. I never give up.
Have you found your place? Or are you still searching, like me?
B 🤍
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