Anatomy of Silence

I used to think I was in control —
a conductor of pulse and breath,
skin tuned to my own tempo.

I thought my body was a locked room,
light slipping through the cracks
only when I allowed it.

But then the world split —
a hand became a verdict,
a breath became a trespass,
and I learned silence has a texture,
thick like honey,
suffocating.

The ceiling spun slow,
a carousel of ghosts,
while my name fell apart in someone else’s mouth.

Afterward, the mirror refused to speak.
The moon pretended not to see.
the body — my body —
stood there,
hollowed and humming,
a vessel remembering too much.

Now, even the air feels like an intrusion.
The wind brushes my shoulder
and I flinch.

Still, somewhere beneath the ruin,
there’s a pulse —
soft, stubborn,
beating out a rhythm that sounds like
mine.