Ink Don’t Lie

I’m not hiding.
I’m working.

This table knows my weight.
This pen knows my grip.
Every line costs something.

The room keeps talking,
but none of it’s for me.
I came to sit with what follows me home,
not what makes noise.

Light hangs tired.
The glass sweats.
My hands move anyway.

I write because silence isn’t empty—
it’s crowded.
With memory.
With time I can’t get back.
With names that still knock.

This isn’t poetry.
It’s pressure relief.
Ink instead of anger.
Paper instead of walls.

I don’t perform.
I document survival.

If something sacred happens here,
it’s not the writing—
it’s that I stayed long enough
to finish the thought. — Nelly Vee.