The Shape of Silence

It’s the echo of every truth you never dared to speak, 

a weight that settles in the hollow of your chest

like something carved from grief

and sharpened by silence.

It crawls along the inside of your skull,

slow and deliberate,

leaving claw marks in places

you swore nothing could reach.

It fills the rooms of your mind

with a stillness so absolute

it feels like a warning.

Breathing becomes a memory,

a thing you used to know how to do

before this presence learned your shape

and wrapped itself around you

with the cold precision

of something that doesn’t need to rush.

This isn’t a blanket—

it’s a shroud.

It doesn’t warm;

it constricts.

It tightens until your pulse forgets its rhythm

and your ribs forget their purpose.

It settles deeper than fear could ever go,

into the marrow,

into the places no light has touched in years.

You can’t see it—

that’s the cruel part.

It hides just beneath the threshold of vision,

drowning you in a darkness

that feels personal,

intentional,

intimate.

And somehow,

it knows you’ll let it stay.