Still Breathing

Silence doesn’t whisper.

It roars—

like thunder cracking inside my skull.

My heart doesn’t beat.

It slams.

Like it’s trying to break its way out

of this cage I call a chest.

I press my hand against it—

not to calm it,

but to make sure

I’m still here.

My fingers shake

with every violent reminder

that I’m alive

against my will.

The wind doesn’t pass through me—

it howls,

finds the hollow parts,

sets up camp

in my emptiness.

It cries the way I can’t.

Loud.

Endless.

Unanswered.

I lie down among cigarette butts—

small graves of borrowed relief,

ash-stained promises

that never kept me warm.

I smoke

to drown the noise,

but the noise learns how to swim.

Nothing saves me here.

Not silence.

Not sound.

Not breath.

Just this brutal moment—

me,

still breathing,

still shaking,

still surrounded by proof

that I tried to disappear

and failed.