If I Had Guts
If I had guts
I’d watch them fall out of me,
not in a heroic way,
not slow motion bravery
but messy,
honest,
right there on the floor.
I’d let everyone see
what I’ve been tucking back in
with practiced hands and jokes.
See, I’ve been carrying courage like contraband,
wrapped in fear,
stuffed behind my ribs
so no one notices the bulge.
If I had guts,
I wouldn’t rehearse my honesty
like a crime scene confession.
I wouldn’t soften the truth
until it fits in someone else’s mouth comfortably.
I’d stop calling my silence “patience.”
Stop calling my fear “timing.”
Stop pretending restraint is maturity
when it’s really just me
ducking the moment.
If I had guts,
they’d spill out mid sentence,
interrupt me while I’m saying “I’m fine,”
hit the ground with a sound
you can’t ignore.
Because courage isn’t clean.
It doesn’t stay inside.
It leaks.
It embarrasses you.
It shows up shaking,
voice cracking,
knees locked,
saying the thing you’ve already survived a thousand times in your head.
If I had guts,
I’d risk being too much,
too honest,
too late,
too real.
I’d rather be exposed
than expertly hidden.
So yeah
if I had guts,
I’d watch them fall out of me,
not because I’m brave,
but because I’m tired
of living like I’m not.