When no one hears you

Words twist, thick and knotted,

falling short of the silence that swallows them.

The room holds its breath,

and my voice folds inside,

strangled by faces that shift like shadows,

bright fluorescent light too harsh for truth.

I watch the empty chair,

pulled back with a sudden shove,

a space for words that never landed.

No one hears the tremble breaking loose

under my ribs, no one counts the fractures

in a story I carry alone.

Truth hangs—too thin, too raw—

a thread pulled tight across the room

and snapping quiet.