I carry storms behind my lips,
Tight sealed with trembling fingertips.
The words are there—sharp, wild, and raw
But fear has locked them in its jaw.

Anxiety’s a quiet thief,
It steals my breath, it feeds my grief.
It wraps around each chance to speak
And crushes it before it peaks.

"Don’t say too much," it warns each day,
"They’ll turn, they’ll leave, they’ll walk away."
So I just nod and fake the part,
While rage and ruin flood my heart.

Depression’s voice is darker still
It tells me silence is my will.
"You’re too much weight, too loud, too wrong
You don’t belong, you don’t belong."

And so I smile, small and tight,
While fighting wars deep out of sight.
Each laugh I fake, each breath I hide,
Is one more scar I wear with pride.

Not out of joy–but out of spite.
Because I lived another night.
Because I’ve learned to bear the cost
Of being here, of being lost.

They never hear the words I drown
The quiet screams, the cracking crown.
But every time I do not fall,
Is something soft,
and something small.

A kind of win. A kind of light.
A voice not loud, but still in fight.
And maybe one day I will say
All I have swallowed
day by day.

But for now, silence is my sword.
Unspoken, yes
but never ignored.