In The Silence
The pain wakes before I do.
The familiar pull,
the sharpness that says
I’m still here.
There is no before anymore
just the ache,
automatic,
uninvited,
always there.
Woven through every breath,
every movement,
every part of me
that used to feel like mine.
I measure distance
in heartbeats and fire,
in the space between breaths.
Each step a negotiation,
every movement a cost.
And still,
I keep walking,
pretending it’s living,
like I haven’t lost enough.
They talk to me like nothing’s changed,
like I’m still the same person,
the same body,
the same heart,
the same voice,
the same breath.
But I’m not.
I feel it in every breath,
every step,
every mirror that doesn’t look back the same.
I want to tell them I’m not the same,
that something inside me broke
and no one noticed.
But the words shatter
before they leave my mouth,
and I bleed in silence instead.
The silence doesn’t leave.
It follows like breath,
fills every empty space.
Even the air feels heavier now—
like it knows
what I cannot say.
