Silence of the heart

In the quiet corners of the night, I wear my silence like old clothes, threadbare from too many battles no one ever noticed. The sadness does not scream anymore. It sits beside me softly, like rain against a window that never fully dries. I am tired in ways sleep cannot repair. Tired of carrying memories that still ache when touched. Tired of pretending the weight inside my chest is something small. Some days, even breathing feels like work. The world moves loudly around me, while I stand still trying not to fall apart. And yet— morning still arrives. So I rise with it, not because I am strong, but because I have survived every dark night that asked me not to.