Cat got your tongue?
They always say it like a joke.
Like my silence is funny.
Like the laughter coming from your mouth isnāt what Iām talking about.
They take it for granted.
Cats got your tongue?
Stabbed it with its paws.
Put it in its mouth.
Chewed it up.
Left it bruised.
Left it tender.
Left it afraid of its own volume.
This Puerto Rican coated tongue is loud.
Not reckless.
Loud with purpose.
Loud like pride.
Loud like love.
Loud like effort.
Loud like Iām still here.
It speaks to show devotion.
It speaks to show respect.
It speaks to show I care.
It speaks to show Iām trying.
And I refuse to let that be misunderstood,
like my voice is aggression
instead of a home.
Iām proud and will always use these lips to uplift my people.
But the silence always lingers.
It follows me
like a shadow with good manners,
quiet,
but always present.
In your peripherals,
but never in your face.
My mouth is a weapon,
sharp and witty,
and my mind is the safety,
thoughtful and at peace.
Some people think a thought
and it spills.
A sloppy overflow.
A brain with no gate.
A mouth with no filter.
Word vomit.
Projectile sentences.
Letters thrown up on the floor
and called honesty.
I let the truth sit on my tongue
until it burns,
until it tastes like consequence.
Spicy to the taste,
it makes my eyes water,
and steam comes from my ears.
Iāve seen what one sentence can do.
How it can split a friendship
like glass under pressure.
How you say one wrong thing
and thereās no coming back from it.
Even mispronouncing someoneās name
will leave that bad taste on their tongue,
if you just kept your mouth shut.
How lovers call you mean
when really youāre just honest.
Too honest
to get far
with people who prefer comfort
over clarity.
Walking on eggshells to not say the wrong thing.
Using generalized statements and broad grouping,
because one wrong move means interrogation.
The series of similar questions leave your mouth
and burn into my being,
straight through the flesh.
I ponder in confusion.
My mouth wonāt move,
but these hands will type.
I can revise with my fingers,
but once you utter it
itās in the world forever.
You canāt typo out your mouth.
And you canāt filter out your thoughts.
Freudian slips will get you
at the worst possible moment.
Even Sigmund Freud is grading your speech,
whole theories based on the human brain
tied to language and speech.
And whole cults dedicated to the silence.
The monks can teach you peace,
clear your mind.
But your thoughts are racing, yes?
A mind full of it.
A tongue that knows too much.
So I hold my tongue
like itās a live wire.
Like itās an animal.
Like itās a blade pressed flat
behind my teeth.
Because once something is said
it canāt be un-said.
It echoes.
It lingers.
It becomes a ghost in the room
long after the conversation ends.
And every time I open my mouth
the cold gets there first.
My lips crack at the corners
like theyāre splitting from restraint,
like the air is sharp enough
to punish me for trying.
The wind chaps them stiff,
frozen,
unable to move.
And my chipped tooth,
that hanging cliff,
catches the words.
Slices them.
Cuts the sentence in half.
Turns a clean thought
into something jagged.
So the message comes out crooked.
The meaning comes out sharp.
And suddenly Iām not communicating.
Iām defending.
So muzzle me down
like a dog that barks and bites.
Because I do both.
My bark gets ignored.
My bite gets remembered.
And silence is my bite.
Silence is the part of me
that refuses to perform.
Silence is the part of me
that refuses to beg.
Silence is how I take.
This conversation is not worth even moving a muscle.
I clench my jaw,
and grind my teeth,
and stare blankly.
Because itās not that I lack voice.
I lack patience.
While language lacks discernment.
Language lacks discreetness.
Language has no loyalty.
It slips.
It betrays.
It gets repeated in the wrong mouth
with the wrong tone
until the truth sounds like a threat.
Words tell you to run for your life,
but so do the eyes.
Are you paying attention?
So I keep my tongue tucked away
like contraband.
Like itās illegal to be honest
in a world that only loves the truth
when itās convenient.
Truth tastes bitter.
Like metal.
Like raw ginger.
Like blood in the back of your throat
after you bite down too hard
trying not to say what you mean.
Truth tastes like regret
before the words even leave your lips.
Because even when youāre honest,
language finds a way to fault you.
Thereās always two sides to language.
I donāt like having to dig for meaning and context,
and fish for facts versus opinion.
And itās funny.
You bite your tongue
and it grows back.
Language will find you.
Speaking will haunt you.
You want your tongue wet.
But my chipped tooth wonāt grow back.
My chipped tooth stays.
A permanent reminder
that even when Iām quiet
Iāve still been broken by impact.
Because speaking feels like
Iām always saying the wrong thing
to the wrong person.
Speaking feels like waiting for a reaction,
not a response.
Speaking feels like
everybody listens
just to answer back.
Everybody responds,
but nobody comprehends.
Reactionary.
Cats got my tongue.
Because they donāt want meaning.
They want combat.
They want discourse.
They donāt want truth.
They want delivery.
So I choose quiet.
Silence tastes like power.
Silence tastes like
Iām better than begging to be understood.
Silence tastes like
I donāt owe you a paragraph.
Like this sentence wonāt help.
And this paragraph doesnāt make sense.
And this short story is too short.
But this essay feels too long,
and like I lost the plot
and wrote a novel instead.
And they misconstrued it
and made it into a reality TV show.
And that reality TV show was so misunderstood
they needed to make a documentary.
So many ways to say the same thing.
Silence tastes like
I donāt owe you an explanation
for the way you already made me feel.
Silence tastes like
you can swallow what I have to say
without me moving my lips
or convincing you to do so.
Because not everything needs to be said
to be understood.
Not everything needs to be explained
to be true.
I like what lives in the quiet.
The knowing.
I like when I give someone a look
and they already understand
Iām ready to go.
I like when the air between us
speaks louder than language.
Because talking is noisy.
Talking is distracting.
Talking makes people search
for hidden meanings
like every word is a riddle
and every sentence is a trap.
Misconceptions.
Misunderstandings.
Mispronounced.
Mistook.
And suddenly youāre not fighting the problem,
youāre fighting interpretation.
Language is a battlefield.
A playing ground.
A warzone.
Turbulence on your flight.
A place where people shoot the meaning,
die with the reaction,
and still try to resurrect the sentence
like it never did damage.
Like intention matters more than impact.
Like you can rewrite the wound
just because you regret the knife.
But silence doesnāt misquote you.
Silence doesnāt twist you.
Silence doesnāt gaslight
or play disrespect
or say things it doesnāt mean.
Neither does this pen.
Thatās why I confide in my notebook
instead of my neighbor.
Because paper doesnāt argue back.
Paper doesnāt interrupt.
Paper doesnāt turn my feelings
into a debate.
It just holds them.
I donāt mind being understood.
I mind being studied.
I donāt mind being questioned.
I mind being accused.
I donāt mind being asked.
I mind being framed.
Language offers too much insight.
You think you know me.
You think you know much.
Because Iāll speak to you in ways you want,
and youāll still frame me for betrayal.
Iāll strip myself down raw.
Change forms, change tongues,
change the way I breathe around you.
Iāll remove sound.
Remove tone.
Remove attitude.
Remove every sharp edge
you swear you hear in my voice.
And youāll still find a way
to not listen.
Because it was never the language.
It was never the semantics.
It was never the delivery.
It was the comfort you find
in making me guilty.
And I hate that.
I hate that I have to regulate your storms
while my own rain
gets debated,
dismissed,
because it doesnāt make sense to you.
I hate that every sentence I give
turns into evidence.
Every explanation
turns into an invitation
for you to cross-examine my intentions
like youāre a prosecutor
and Iām a suspect
in the debacle of your imagination.
And Iām too grown
to keep pleading my innocence
to someone who likes me guilty.
I do the framework
and then I get framed.
So now Iām learning
how to love quieter.
How to swallow less.
How to stop begging you
to understand
what you already refuse.
Language has its limits.
And semantics canāt save me
from a mind that already decided
what I meant.
But silence.
Silence doesnāt stutter.
Silence doesnāt plead.
Silence doesnāt trip over itself
trying to be believed.
Silence doesnāt over explain
or hurt you with its words.
Words stick.
Silence doesnāt have to prove
itās pure.
And maybe thatās why you fear it.
Because when I stop talking,
you canāt twist my words.
You can only sit
with the truth.
And the truth is:
Iāve spoken before.
And it cost me.
And I hate how often
solitude feels like relief.
But I think the best when Iām quiet.
I heal the most
when nobody is pulling at me.
I pay attention
to the quietest in the room.
What are you hiding?
The loudest in the room
wants attention like hunger.
Me?
Iām quiet,
but my presence speaks for itself.
I still turn heads.
But now I turn heads
in admiration.
Silence changes the narrative.
Ever cough in a meeting?
Feel how every eye turns
like you committed a crime.
Feel how you almost want to hold it in.
Dying inside,
trying to keep it polite.
Thatās what it feels like to speak.
Like even a scratch in your throat
needs permission.
So I drink water.
I swallow it down.
I excuse myself.
I cough in private.
I find peace
without eyes,
without fear,
without being perceived.
And Iām not saying I donāt rant.
Iām not saying I donāt joke.
Iām not saying I donāt laugh loud
or love a conversation
that spills like liquor.
But I hate talking in circles.
You made your point,
so why are you still talking?
Why do people stretch one sentence
into a whole war?
Why do they repeat themselves
again
and again
and again
until the meaning is diluted
and the apology becomes performance?
They keep talking
until the room is tired enough
to agree.
They keep talking
until silence gives in.
Say it once.
Say it like you mean it.
The ones who oblige show respect.
The talk back shows restraint.
The straight-up ignoring
shows lack thereof.
Say it once with conviction,
then let the silence linger.
And watch.
Because silence is revealing.
Silence tells you
what the mouth wonāt admit.
Silence tells you
if they care.
Silence tells you
if theyāre guilty.
Silence tells you
if theyāre done.
Whether good or bad,
you already know.
And people tell me to speak.
They urge me.
They encourage me
like my voice is meant for the big screen.
Like they want the Puerto Rican to perform.
They donāt.
They prefer colonized.
Who wants to hear us speak
when weāre loud with truth?
They love the accent
until it comes with conviction.
They love the culture
until it comes with boundaries.
They want Bad Bunny on the speakers
but not the Puerto Rican in the room
standing firm.
But I use my voice in my work.
You will read my triumphs.
You will read my grief.
You will read my prayers.
And you will not use language
to misconstrue it.
You will sit with it.
You will sit in silence.
And you will swallow what I have to say
without me having to move my lips
or convince you to do so.
Hold my tongue
and hold my hand.
What my mouth canāt utter
you can feel.
Through my touch.
Through my gaze.
Through the way I lean away
when Iām done.
Through intuition.
Through patterns.
Because language is lazy.
Direct.
Forceful.
It demands a response.
It demands a reaction.
But silence?
Silence doesnāt ask questions.
Silence gives answers.
And Iām witty.
Sharp-mouthed.
Sarcastic.
Direct.
I donāt sugarcoat.
I donāt falsify.
I donāt lie.
If I speak,
itās raw and unfiltered.
I read you.
So sometimes I donāt speak at all.
Maybe Iāve outgrown being digestible.
Maybe my silence isnāt weakness.
Maybe itās discipline.
Maybe itās maturity.
Maybe itās me learning
that not everybody deserves
the sharpest part of me.
And I bet you can hear me clearly.
I didnāt need to open my mouth.
I didnāt need to convince you to stay.
I didnāt need verbal language
to make you hear my voice.
But you did.
Loud and clear.
And even if you donāt agree,
you understand.
So.
Cat got your tongue?
No.
I just learned how to bite mine
before you bite it for me.