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
who finds it hard to let go,
to let the pain flow
through glassy eyes.

My grief is hidden
beneath the wail of a smile.
I feel too—
the lump in my throat
I force myself to swallow,
the sheen of tears
I blink back quickly.

So yes, I feel too.

And some feelings—
some stories—
deserve to be held like fragile glass,
not shattered in a rush
to be “okay.”

Reflection: There is no timeline for healing, no single way to grieve. Some wounds speak not in screams, but in silence. This poem is a reminder that not everyone wears their sorrow the same—and that strength sometimes looks like survival, like smiling through a storm.

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