I thread my words though the eye of a 
needle,
pull them tight—
not a stitch out of place.

You ask, “What’s wrong?”
but I answer in weather reports:
Cloudy. Chance of static.
The air feels heavy,
like someone’s leaning in too close,
ears pressed to walls
I can’t see.

Every word, a folded note
passed under the table,
half- burned before it reaches you.
I say “It’s fine”
but I mean “it’s fracturing.”
I say “Busy lately”
but mean “they’re listening.”

You look at me like
I’ve built a house of mirrors
and handed you a map
written backwards.

But there are places
where even vowels are sharp,
where consonants snap like traps
if you’re not careful.

So, I twist my language
tie knots in my sentences,
until only I
can pull them loose.

And maybe you’ll hear it—
in the static between my words,
the truth flickers,
barely there.
But safe. 
Still safe.