is it always this loud,
or have i just started listening?
the air pulses—
not from sound,
but from expectation.
what if i forget how to breathe
without someone watching?
what if i already have?
the ceiling sweats.
the walls lean in.
does the room know
i’m trying not to fall apart?
my skin buzzes,
not from fear,
but from waiting for it.
for the sharp thing,
the wrong word,
the slow blink that ruins everything.
why does silence feel like accusation?
why do voices sound like mirrors?
i blink,
and the world repositions—
not violently,
just enough to unseat me.
the chair shifts under my weight.
am i too much again?
or is it just the thought of being seen
that makes me so?
every word i speak
frays at the edges,
like it's trying to escape me mid-sentence.
are they still listening?
were they ever?
my heartbeat stutters—
not in fear,
but in anticipation
of fear.
there is no danger here.
then why does the door
look like a verdict?
i want to ask for help,
but the words feel
like spilled glass—
how do you pick them up
without bleeding?
and if i’m always breaking,
who would stay long enough
to gather the pieces?
how much of this
is just being alive?
and how much
is whatever i’ve become
while trying to hide it?
what is the name for this feeling—
not drowning,
not burning,
just shaking
beneath still water?
when does the body
stop mistaking its own breath
for danger?
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 9:05 AM UTC
is it always this loud,
or have i just started listening?
the air pulses—
not from sound,
but from expectation.
what if i forget how to breathe
without someone watching?
what if i already have?
the ceiling sweats.
the walls lean in.
does the room know
i’m trying not to fall apart?
my skin buzzes,
not from fear,
but from waiting for it.
for the sharp thing,
the wrong word,
the slow blink that ruins everything.
why does silence feel like accusation?
why do voices sound like mirrors?
i blink,
and the world repositions—
not violently,
just enough to unseat me.
the chair shifts under my weight.
am i too much again?
or is it just the thought of being seen
that makes me so?
every word i speak
frays at the edges,
like it's trying to escape me mid-sentence.
are they still listening?
were they ever?
my heartbeat stutters—
not in fear,
but in anticipation
of fear.
there is no danger here.
then why does the door
look like a verdict?
i want to ask for help,
but the words feel
like spilled glass—
how do you pick them up
without bleeding?
and if i’m always breaking,
who would stay long enough
to gather the pieces?
how much of this
is just being alive?
and how much
is whatever i’ve become
while trying to hide it?
what is the name for this feeling—
not drowning,
not burning,
just shaking
beneath still water?
when does the body
stop mistaking its own breath
for danger?