I sat in silence longer than I should,
not in prayer, nor peace—
but in that tight, bright place
where stillness hums too loud.

At first, it felt like safety:
no movement, no noise,
no eyes to meet,
no choices to disappoint.

I held my breath like a gift
wrapped in glass and guilt,
told myself
this is control—
this is clarity.

And in that tension,
the world sharpened.
Colors bloomed too vivid,
time slowed like sap from a wounded tree,
and I swore I saw truth
etched on the inside of my eyelids.

Some call it grace.
Some call it disassociation.
Some call it euphoria.
But it is stillness born from fear—
and even the stars blink.

Because what is stillness
if not a waiting room for pain?
A way to pause the scream
just long enough
to pretend we were never hurting?

I held still so long
the quiet became a voice,
the voice became a weight,
and the weight
felt like home.

But home shouldn’t suffocate you.

So I breathed.
A slow, raw, ragged thing—
the kind that stretches lungs
and makes the ribs ache
from use.

And with it came
not release,
not revelation,
but a simple, selfish need:
to live.

To move.
To tremble.
To scream.
To sing again.

Even if the voice cracks.
Even if no one listens.
Even if stillness comes back tomorrow—
I now know I can let go
before I burst.
-**