The Noise

Silence is a surgeon.

It cuts deep,

but it cuts clean.

Without it,

you stitch distraction

over a wound still bleeding—

then call it healed.

Every screen,

every voice,

every hand that fills the empty bed—

it’s just gauze,

soaked and useless

by morning.

Aloneness is not punishment.

It is the body’s last defense,

the spirit’s final plea:

“Let me breathe.”

But when you run from silence,

you don’t just dodge your own reckoning—

you chain another heart to your avoidance.

Two souls,

both suffocating,

calling it love,

while neither one heals.

Distraction isn’t comfort.

It’s abuse.

To you.

To them.

And it only ends

when one of you finally

chooses to sit

with the unbearable quiet.

Because that quiet—

that unflinching,

terrifying quiet—

is where healing begins.