Silence Isn’t Quiet at All

Nothing is louder
than the tears
no one sees—
the ones that fall quietly
but land like thunder
inside the chest.

2 a.m. sits beside me
like an old, familiar ghost,
overthinking every heartbeat,
rewinding memories
I never meant to keep.

And every Friday night,
a poet speaks for me—
their words spilling into the dark
like someone finally turning on a light
in a room I’ve been afraid to enter.

Silence isn’t quiet at all.

s     r    a     s
c     e     m
e  c  h  o  e  s

It knows my name.
and—
poet read every
Friday night at 2 am.