What I Sound Like

The room was quiet

until I noticed

that I was not.

My breath was the loudest thing,

in and out,

filling the space,

taking up room,

making it impossible

for anything else

to be silent.

In and out.

In and out.

I tried to breathe smaller,

quieter,

like I could disappear

if I just

got the sound

of my own body

under control.

But breathing doesn't work that way.

The more you listen,

the louder it gets.

The more you try to be small,

the more you become

the sound of survival,

the proof

that you're still here,

taking up air,

taking up space,

refusing to leave quietly.

I sat there

listening to myself

exist.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The rhythm of being alive

is the sound

I can't stop making,

the noise

I can't take back,

the presence

I can't erase

no matter how hard

I try

to be quiet.

So I sat in the room

and I breathed,

and I let myself

be loud,

let myself

be present,

let myself

be the thing

that fills the silence

with the sound

of staying alive.

Even if it was just me.

Even if no one was listening.

Even if the only person

who had to hear it

was me.