The Ache We Keep
Introduction: Some people don’t cry—not because they’re numb, but because the ache has been folded into them like a letter no one will read. This poem is for those who are told to “let go” before they’re even ready to hold what they feel. It speaks for the quiet mourners, the silent strugglers, and the ones who’ve learned that sometimes, holding on is the only way to stay whole. They say, “Let go. Just cry. Breathe it out,” as if release were a faucet we could twist at will— as if tears don’t get jammed in the throat like apologies we never learned to say. But some of us hold on, not because we love the ache, but because the ache is all we’ve got that still feels real. We store our sorrow like love letters we can’t burn— crease-folded memories pressed in silence— because even pain has a pulse, and letting go sometimes feels like dying twice. So if I don’t weep when you think I should, if I smile with a tremble behind my teeth, know this: I’m not heartless— I’m haunted. I’m just someone...