Maybe, just maybe, I need to let the words out.
But words shouldn’t be released.
Words should stay inside, for the sake of everyone else.

I could scream.
I could let everything spill out from my clogged pores.
But then again… adulthood.
My most detested hood, without a doubt.

Being an adult means knowing the consequences, and worse, caring about them.
It means enlarging those consequences until they no longer fit inside this life,
until they turn into nightmares full of monsters.

And so we keep it in. All of it.
The problem is that something always escapes
some part overflows from the nearly full cup,
whether we want it to or not.

And then?
Then we do what adults are expected to do:
we blame work, lack of vacations, Christmas, the children…
Everyone understands.
It’s easy.
So much easier than simply saying, “I cannot do this anymore.”

Because the truth is:
I feel like I physically cannot keep going.
I am literally bribing myself at this point—
“just one more month, just a little more, we’re almost there.”
Holding myself together with whispers of patience and promises I’m too tired to keep.

But as anyone with a vicious stomach ache knows,
the hardest moment is always the one right outside the bathroom door.