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Inside,
something always strikes first.
It's not noise,
it's soundless pressure.
A twisted heartbeat,
a pulse that doesn't seek rhythm,
but rather an escape.

The skin remains.
The eyes pretend to be here.
But inside,
there's a whirlwind that doesn't spin,
it only pushes.

You,
at the center of yourself,
are the exact point
where all tensions intersect.

The bridge that tenses
but doesn't yield.

The word that isn't born
because it knows it could burn everything.

Self-control,
it's like a cage,
it's like an edge.

It's like confinement,
it's like an opposing form.

There's a fire
that demands to be screamed,
but you choose the steam.

A fury that wants to be an edge,
but you make it curved.

And so,
you shape the explosion,
making it habitable.

The hands tremble in their stillness,
and that too is victory.
Because sometimes the hardest thing
is not resisting the world,
but resisting oneself.

There is a dance
that no one sees,
a small war
that leaves no trace,
but from which one emerges
tired and whole.

And when it passes,
when the wave recedes
and the skin remains in place,
one knows:
the fire was contained.
Not out of fear,
but out of choice.

And in that contained crack,
there is strength.
There is form.
There is a peace
that makes no sound
but remains.


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