He is the quiet kind of ruined.
The kind that doesn’t bleed, but decays slowly
beneath the skin. No one notices the way his hands tremble
when they’re not looking.
How he stares too long at nothing,
as if the silence is speaking back.
He’s mastered the art of being
unseen.

They say he’s calm.
Collected. Strong.
He won’t ask for help, but renders it instead
But strength is just another word
for silence
when no one is listening.

Inside,
he is all cracked glass—
one breath away from shattering.
He carries storms
like secrets in his chest.
Memories sharpened into weapons
he turns inward.

He doesn’t scream.
Because screaming would mean
He’s real,
and he’s been pretending for so long
he’s started to vanish
even to himself.

Some nights,
he feels it rising—
a pressure, a pulse,
like something terrible
trying to claw its way out.
But he swallows it down.
Always.
Because what if the breaking
never stops?
What if he becomes
everything he’s afraid of?

No one sees the ruin in his restraint.
How holding it in
has become its own kind of violence.
There is a war inside him
with no victor,
only ruin,
only wreckage.

One day,
he will not bend.
He will not warn.
He will simply
cease.
And it won’t be loud.
It’ll be the kind of quiet
that takes the air with it.
The kind that leaves people whispering,
“But he seemed fine…”

He always seemed fine, in his own prison.


Erennwrites