They say silence is peace — but mine screams.
It hums through the cracks of my ribs, echoing in the hollow of my chest where laughter used to live.
People tell me I’m overreacting, that I only need God — as if faith alone could sew the torn seams of a mind unraveling in the dark.
But I do cry to Him, with trembling hands and a breaking voice.
Sometimes I almost turn away, not because I stopped believing, but because I’m tired of believing and still feeling this way.
I don’t even know what’s happening anymore.
All I know is that I’m tired.
I’m drowning in thoughts that won’t stop speaking, pulling me under like waves that never rest.
And when silence becomes too loud, I see myself fading in the corner of my room — a shadow waiting for the sun that never comes.
I needed a hug, but none arrived.
So I held my pain instead, pressed it against my skin until it remembered it was real.
They say I’m quiet, but they don’t know my quiet burns.
They don’t see the storm behind my stillness, the weight behind my smile.
They don’t hear the voices whispering that I am too much and never enough in the same breath.
I laugh when I have to, speak when I must, but the noise inside me never truly stops.
It’s a constant hum — a reminder that peace doesn’t always sound like silence.
And yet, I breathe.
And yet, I pray.
Some nights, I beg for peace.
Some nights, I simply listen to the wind and pretend it’s an answer.
Maybe one day, the silence will soften, the noise will fade, and the world will sound like mercy again.
Maybe one day, I’ll find arms that don’t flinch at my cracks, and a light that doesn’t ask me to shine.
So if you find me in my quiet, don’t tell me to smile.
Don’t tell me to pray harder.
Just stay.
Sit beside me — until the silence learns how to be gentle again.
