The Language Everyone Knows

 

The Language Everyone Knows

There is a room

where everyone speaks
a language
I grew up hearing.

I know its rhythm.

I know when to nod.

I know which words
come after which.

If they stopped midway,
I could finish every sentence.

Not because I understand—

because I remember.

They speak,
and every face softens
as though the words
arrive somewhere warm.

Mine don't.

They arrive here—

behind my eyes,

where they sit politely,

waiting

for a door
that never opens.

Sometimes I wonder

whether everyone else
hears music,

while I have only memorised
the lyrics.

No one notices.

I answer when I'm asked.

I smile
at the right places.

The room continues
without me.

Then someone asks,

"What do you believe?"

And the room becomes louder.

Not louder in sound—

louder in certainty.

Every answer
already knows itself.

Mine

looks at the floor.

There are days
I want every voice
to stop.

Not because I hate them.

Not because I think
they are wrong.

Only because

if everyone were silent,

perhaps

for the first time,

I could hear

whatever it is

that refuses

to speak back.