When one falls silent,
it is not the hush of healing,
but the sound of something within
splintering without witness.
The choices were made
long before speech gave way—
sealed in the marrow,
bound beneath the tongue,
buried alive beneath a face
that learned too well
the art of appearing unbroken.
There is a silence
that does not soothe;
it devours.
It leaves the room colder,
the name less certain,
the soul standing at the threshold
of its own vanishing.
And what remains
is not indecision,
but the terrible clarity
of a heart that has already
chosen its ruin
and mistaken it for peace.