Quiet

Quiet,

Not shy.

My words are sharp,

So my lips become a sheath.

Inside:

A busy subway, people push, shoulder-to-shoulder

Outside:

My dad died

Quiet,

Not shy.

I didn’t just hold my tongue,

I grabbed it and pulled.

God forbid I say something wrong now.

The first day back at school

And I already had an assignment.

A composition book,

A Ticonderoga,

And “Write.”

I exploded.

The shrapnel flew out of me and stabbed the pages

I screamed,

And the notebook kept my secret.

Outside: 

“Kids process death differently.

They’re too young to grasp the concept.”

Inside:

The pages knew how much I missed my dad.

The poems let me speak.

They understood.

I was quiet,

Not shy.