Unleashed

By Shubhangi Godse

Just because I don’t speak of it

doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.

Every word,

every pause,

every smirk,

every sham —

I remember it all.

I carry it in my chest,

like a stone that won’t settle,

a breath I can’t release.

The weight of your disregard

presses down,

slowly choking me,

tightening around my throat,

until I can hardly breathe.

I keep it buried,

shoved deep in the quiet places,

because I’ve been taught

that silence is safer,

that I’m supposed to hold it all together,

be small, be invisible,

keep the fire at bay.

But it grows.

It doesn’t stay hidden.

It pushes against the walls I built,

scratches at the surface,

and every time you ignore it,

it claws deeper inside.

So don’t provoke me,

because the fire I’m holding back

could scorch everything in its path.

It’s quiet now,

but inside, it roars,

fed by all the words unsaid,

all the anger locked away

for fear of becoming too much.

And when it does —

when the walls finally break,

nothing will be spared.

Not you, not me,

not the years spent choking down the truth.

The world will burn,

and I’ll stand in the ashes,

no longer suffocated,

no longer silenced,

free in the destruction I’ve earned.

I won’t apologize for what rises,

because you can’t smother a storm

once it’s been caged for too long.

By Shubhangi Godse