"Between Saying and Being Heard"

I start with thoughts as they rise,
       lacking polish,
              unencumbered by softening,
before the world even asks them to dress
       for company.

Some days I want to speak it straight
—just the shape it arrived in,
   the first spark of a thing
   still warm from its source,
   not yet glancing sideways
   to see who’s listening.

But then there’s the other pull:
the sense that a word won’t travel far
     unless it’s steadied,
        angled,
given a surface someone else
can place their hand on
   —a bridge that could be crossed
      from both directions,
      and still hold its form
      on the way across.

Not decoration,
just enough structure
to keep it from faltering
as it moves.

And I stand between these two urges,
holding the sentence like a fragile tool,
wondering whether to keep it close
or send it outward.

Because to speak only for myself
is a kind of shelter,
and to speak so another can meet me
is a kind of risk.

So, I do what I’ve always done:
shape the truth just enough
that it can leave the room
without losing its centre,
      but not so much
            that it forgets where it came from.

.