Blood & Foam / White

Some mornings, I wake up with enough violence in me to ruin everyone’s day.

Not because anyone did anything. Not yet, anyway.

There is just too much noise inside me, and every thought has arrived wearing boxing gloves. I could explain what is happening, but that would require language, patience and a version of myself interested in being understood.

So I choose silence. Not the gentle kind.

The kind that makes people wonder whether I have found peace or started keeping evidence. The kind that sits quietly in the corner while every possible reaction fights to be the first one released.

People mistake silence for calm because they cannot hear what it is holding back. 
Sometimes I am not quiet because I have nothing to say.

I am quiet because every sentence currently available to me would make the situation worse.

So I breathe. I stare.
I let the world continue believing I am composed.

Meanwhile, somewhere inside me, something is beating the living shit out of me.