In the end, it is always the silence that finds me.
Not the kind that comforts,
but the kind that presses its weight against my ribs
until breathing feels borrowed.
Thoughts stack on top of thoughts,
regrets poured like wet cement,
hardening around my chest in slow layers
while every memory crashes over me
like waves made of concrete instead of water.
I survive each one,
but survival is not the same thing as healing.
And when everyone leaves,
when the noise fades and the lights dim low enough
for the truth to crawl out of the corners,
I become hollow in ways no one notices.
Not broken loudly,
just emptied.
A shell still standing out of habit,
echoing with everything I should have let go of
but carried anyway.