There are battles that don’t wear armor,
wars fought in whispers, not roars.
Inside me, the enemy plants its flags,
builds fortresses out of my own fears.
I try to evict what doesn’t belong,
but some squatter thoughts refuse to leave.
They know my architecture intimately,
map every weakness like second nature.
This is not a battlefield of fists,
but one of silence, echo, and shadow.
I sharpen my voice into a weapon,
only to find it crumbling in my throat.
How do you fight what already knows you?
What hides in your reflection, lingering?
There are no exorcisms for yourself,
no safe distance between host and ghost.
So I soldier forward, uneasy on purpose,
tripping over barricades nobody can see.
Every inch of progress hard-earned,
every step somehow both mine and not.