Silence wasn’t empty.  
It was alive.  
Thick with what no one could say,  
what I never dared to ask.

It filled the room  
like smoke after prayer,  
curling around my ribs  
until I forgot how to breathe without holding back.

I thought it was safety—  
this quiet.  
But it was a verdict  
disguised as peace.

And when I finally listened,  
I heard everything I tried to bury:  
the grief,  
the want,  
the name I refused to speak.

Silence didn’t spare me.  
It kept score.

I keep floating  
in the aftermath of what I never said.  
Words left sealed inside  
tight as a vacuum-packed wound.

I orbit old versions of myself—  
each more silent than the last.  
None of them landed  
where the heart was supposed to beat.

Nothing holds me down here.  
Not guilt.  
Not grace.  
Just this feeling  
of breath stretched too thin  
across memory.

My pulse drifts  
in low tide,  
no gravity to pull it home.

Even love feels hypothetical—  
a theory abandoned by every scientist  
who tried to measure my pain.

So I write  
just to hear an echo.  
Just to remind myself  
that silence isn’t the only thing  
still alive in me.

Head spinning—  
dazed in this stormcloud of confusion.  
It isn’t fog.  
It’s a maze made of color and collapse.

Every turn—  
a new place with no map,  
no anchor,  
just faces too blurred to remember,  
yet somehow still watching.

Voices press in,  
muffling thought.  
Every word I reach for  
chokes in the static.  
Reality fades—  
peeling off in shards.

All that’s left  
are shattered echoes,  
broken memories  
calling from somewhere  
I can’t return to.

Meaning sinks beneath the sorrow.  
Hollowed out.  
Spun dry.  
Still standing  
inside the labyrinth.

Shadows rot beneath my ribs, panic waltzes razor-thin  
Voices in my head clash—battle cries where night begins  
Strangers drive my bones toward the edge I forgot  
Mirror swallows me whole—no rescue from glass  

Who am I? Splitting to survive  
One soul, fractures come alive  
Internal kingdoms burn while the pieces wage blood  
Heavy weights crush the beating flood  

Synapse cracked open, thunder in my veins  
Cycling through faces, chaos loves its chains  
Masks devour each other—nothing stops the spin  
Identity dislocated—where do I end or begin?  

Rage erupts—fists pound the void, chaotic stream  
Shell of a thought, stitched inside this dream  
A hundred voices rise, all tugging at the seam  
Freedom not freedom—it weeps in the scheme  

Who am I? Splitting to survive  
One soul, fractures come alive  
Internal kingdoms burn while the pieces wage blood  
Heavy weights crush the beating flood  

Truth bleeds out through prisms cracked and cruel  
Clock ticks backward—reality’s duel  
Mind’s a maze—no compass, no absolution  
Screams starve in silence—dose me with dissolution

Minds, hollowed—  
ghost-chambers echoing with voices that never meant to stay.  
They drag their claws along the skull  
just to prove they're real.  

These words don’t write.  
They convulse.  
They twist mid-thought,  
snapping like tendons in inkless pens.  

Thoughts bend—unnatural,  
like limbs forced backward in prayer.  
Each one a splinter lodged  
too deep to mourn properly.  

Pride calcifies—  
a stone swallowed out of habit,  
weighing down the throat  
until breath becomes performance.  

Deceit prowls the ribcage  
wearing kindness like a borrowed face.  
Swallow cheats  
beating empty—  
percussion without a pulse.

And still—  
the voices.  
Razor-rung, relentless.  
They gut the lungs from within,  
fill the chest with phantom limbs  
that clench when I try to rest.

This is precedent.  
This pressure.  
This loop wrapped in bonewire.  
Endless.  
Clocks without numbers,  
ticking inside the teeth.

Minds hollowed with unspeakable voices lingering.
These words are intangible.
Twining and twisting before the ink leaves the pen.
Thoughts unimaginably twisted, dwelling deeply inside.
Suffocating under stationary pride.
Predatorial deceitful.
Swallow cheats beating empty.
What a cage these undeniable voices, snaring me in.
Clawing on my inside, lungs collapsing.
This pressure precedent.
Stuck within a vortex loop , endlessly spinning out of control.

Let’s walk the wreckage barefoot,  
through memories sharp as shattered psalms—  
each bone a prayer, each scar a chorus  
echoing grief in broken qualms.  

I’ve worn collapse like second skin,  
threaded my name through rusted seams,  
carried silence in the sockets  
where I once stored softer dreams.  

Damage done, repeated scripture,  
spoken in a stranger’s tongue.  
Every wound a familiar fixture—  
every verse I’ve bitten from.  

My reflection changes nightly,  
ghosted in the glass it leaves.  
Not a stranger—just unlikely,  
just a skin I’m forced to grieve.  

I’d sail myself to nowhere lands,  
trade these thoughts for phantom seas,  
but the tide still grips with bone-split hands  
and drags me back through memories.  

These edges—thick with visual lies,  
mirrors dressed in stolen light—  
carve new truths into my eyes  
and steal the name I’d try to write.  

So don’t mistake my silence  
for surrender or for sleep—  
I’m the hymn beneath the violence,  
I’m the secret shadows keep.  

Directionless but moving still,  
with every fracture in my spine,  
toward some echo none can fill,  
toward a self that once was mine.