Buried Beneath

I sip the silence like bitter wine,

masking the tremble behind my spine.

The bottle’s not glass,

but a glance I deflect,

a memory sealed

in a room I neglect.

I joke like a shield,

I laugh through the pain,

each punchline a tourniquet

tight on a vein.

Truth festers quiet

where no one can see

I’m dying in private,

but smiling for free.

The mirror knows more

than I’ll ever tell.

It stares with a judgment

I wear far too well.

Every scar’s stitched

with threads of “I’m fine,”

while shame draws the borders

outside every line.

There’s comfort in chaos

I crafted alone,

a kingdom of coping

I've claimed as my own.

I kneel to the gods

of distraction and fear,

praying the past

won’t echo too near.

I know there are hands

that would offer their light,

but pride grips my throat

in the dead of the night.

Help feels like weakness,

admitting defeat

so I march through my hell

with unblistered feet.

But deep in the marrow,

a whisper remains:

You’re not just your damage,

you’re more than your chains.

One day I might listen,

one day I might speak,

when the silence I sip

finally tastes weak.