Quietus

I can’t stay here, but every time I try to leave, the walls lean in like they’re taking notes on how I breathe. Feels like my memories keep skipping scenes, like someone spliced the reel and left the worst parts in between. I’ve lived years with a hollow parked inside my chest, cold shape, no name, pressing through the bone when I try to rest. And every time I think I’m steady,it tilts, and I’m back where the quiet hurts the loudest. Do you feel anything when the noise dies down? Or do you chase strangers just to drown it out? Tell me this, does your chest stay quiet when the room goes cold? Mine doesn’t. It rattles like something unpaid trying to take hold. Call it “love” if that’s the lie you need, but I’ve learned the shape of hunger and it never felt like peace. So answer straight when the night stops talking, do you feel anything at all? ’Cause I don’t. Not anymore. I’ve been crawling through the nights where the quiet turns raw, every memory on the floor with a hand on my jaw, every whisper in the plaster trying to redraw who I’m meant to be, I drag it out, make it see what I saw. I’ve been forcing every truth that they told me to dodge, turning every locked door to a promise I lodge, and the weight that used to drown me now sits like a badge, ’cause the damage didn’t break me, it taught me how to sabotage. When the room goes still, I still feel that shove, that low little tremor that refuses to budge, and it mutters, “One slip and you pay what you owe, step sharp, step real, choose quick, don’t slow.” So I press, I snap, I move through dread, chasing down every thought that was left for dead, no faith, no myth, no fate being fed, just the force in my chest when the noise spreads red. And I don’t back down when the pressure climbs, I don’t fold when the old hurt rewinds, I just tear through the dark till the dark resigns, ’cause I’m done letting ghosts redesign my lines. Do you feel anything when the noise dies down? Or do you chase strangers just to drown it out? Tell me this, does your chest stay quiet when the room goes cold? Mine doesn’t. It rattles like something unpaid trying to take hold. Call it “love” if that’s the lie you need, but I’ve learned the shape of hunger and it never felt like peace. So answer straight when the night stops talking, do you feel anything at all? ’Cause I don’t. Not anymore. Some things break and stay useful. Some things break and stay broken. I’m somewhere between just sharp enough to function, just cracked enough to feel permanent. I stopped waiting for warmth. Somewhere along the line, the part of me that cared went quiet and never came back. People talk about healing like it’s a ladder but I learned real quick you can only climb so far before the rungs stop existing. And after that? You don’t “grow.” You harden. I don’t flinch anymore. Not at hurt, not at loss, not at leaving. Everything that used to shake me just lands… quiet now. When the dark presses in, I don’t panic like I used to. I study it. I map it. I let it teach me what I never wanted to learn. And the sick part? I think I’m better for it. I think whatever broke made room for someone else to move in someone who doesn’t mind the way silence tastes. You wanna know the truth? I don’t miss who I was. He felt too much. He cracked too easy. He cared loud and it killed him slow. Me? I walk lighter. I leave quicker. I don’t lose sleep over people anymore. Not even myself. If there’s anything left in me that still feels… it’s faint. A flicker. A habit more than a heartbeat. But don’t mistake that for weakness. I learned how to live without the parts that made me human. And now? I don’t break. I don’t bend. I don’t bleed for anyone. If you call that empty fine. It works.