At nine I folded something into thirds
And pushed it down before I had the words.
It lives beneath my tongue still, patient, curled—
the first secret I swallowed from the world.

At work I answer emails, nod, agree,
A fluent ghost of who I’m meant to be.
My colleagues think I’m easy, calm, polite.
They’ve never heard me bargain with the night.

It happened in the kitchen, after three.
No ceremony. Nothing warning me.
The folded thing I’d kept began to unfold.
It had my face. It was nine years old.

Its eyes were open but the lids were wrong—
They blinked real slow, like time had stretched too long.
It wore my Sunday shirt, soaked in red.
I saw it start to speak. I fled.

That night I poured a drink and went to bed.
I told myself I’d dreamed the shirt, the red.
But now I feel him standing where I stand—
Not asking to be held, just to hold my hand.

I tell you this not as a man made whole,
But as a hand still reaching for his soul.
He’s still standing in that kitchen. Still nine.
The silence was never his. It was mine.