Silence.

Do you hear that?

That… is silence.

But my silence?

My silence was never still.

It was loud—

it was sharp—

it cut deeper than screams ever could.

It was painful.

It was ignored.

But somehow… somehow,

it was also noticed.

I’ve been silenced.

I am silence.

Been living in it

since I was a child.

And still—

no one ever asked,

“What’s wrong with her?

Why is she so quiet?”

No one ever cared

to question the hush I wore

like a second skin.

I stayed there,

in the silence,

hiding from a world too loud to listen.

Too cruel to understand.

I was tired—

tired of being the punchline,

tired of the spotlight that only came

to humiliate.

So I hid.

I buried my shame,

my rage,

my exhaustion.

All of it—

underneath the silence.

All I ever wanted…

was for them

to be silent.

Silence, please.

But here’s the thing:

I was silent—

but I was loud.

You just didn’t hear me.

My silence wasn’t empty,

it was full. Full of screams,

full of questions,

full of pain

that had no place to go.

Did you see me?

Did you even look?

Did you notice the tears

I cried so quietly

you mistook them for strength?

I was sitting there,

still—

frozen—

begging for help

without moving my lips.

Silence was my scream.

And still,

no one heard.

So now I say—

SHUT UP.

Let me retreat.

Let me slip back

into that place

where no one mocks me,

no one sees me,

no one hears me.

Let me go back into my silence

before it becomes

permanent.

Silence.