Numb Enough to Feel Nothing

I’m fine, trust me —

or whatever that word means

when nothing touches me anymore.

I move through the room

like a ghost that forgot who it’s haunting,

hands steady, heartbeat slow,

mind blank in a way that feels

almost peaceful

and almost terrifying.

The shadows stretch across the wall

and I don’t flinch.

I don’t feel anything,

not fear, not relief —

just the dull static of existing

because my body hasn’t learned

how to stop.

I tell myself I’m fine

because it’s easier than explaining

how quiet it is inside my chest,

how every emotion slips through my fingers

before I can decide what to do with it.

Nothing hurts.

But nothing heals either.

I’m just here —

breathing out of habit,

living out of muscle memory,

waiting for something

to break the silence in my bones.