The Talking Introvert

She is the unsent message,

the half-formed sentence that dies on her tongue.

A soul that screams in whispers,

a mind too wild for this quiet cage.

She is the silence in a room full of voices,

the one who listens, absorbs, drowns.

Every word she does not say

rots inside her like a forgotten truth.

She has buried herself in unspoken thoughts,

stitched her lips with fear,

carved her solitude into an armor

that no one dares to break.

But when she does speak—

when the dam shatters,

when the silence turns to fire,

her voice is not a sound—

it is a reckoning.

It is raw.

It is relentless.

It is every caged word escaping at once,

every unshed tear turning to thunder,

every restrained thought unraveling into storms.

And then—

when the world stares, stunned, at the wreckage,

she gathers her silence once more,

wraps herself in its familiar weight,

and returns to the shadows,

where she is loudest in her quiet.