The Quiet Drowning

A silent struggle: unseen weight, dissolving words, the ache of drowning alone.

There is a kind of hurt
that never screams.
It whispers,
threads itself through the spine,
settles in the throat
until silence feels safer than sound.

You look fine.
You show up.
You smile, you nod.
But beneath the surface
the water rises,
clothes heavy with memory,
grief a stone in your pocket.

The thought of reaching out flickers.
You try to speak,
but the words dissolve.

too big,
too small,
too much,
never enough
for something this consuming.

So you go still.
You wait.
You hope someone notices.
the dimming light,
the quiet shift,
the slow unravel.

You fight for escape,
to keep from being buried alive.
But no rescue comes,
in the room
where no one sees
you drowning.