that silence is a shape, isn't it, a container for all the things i'm too afraid to voice, the curve of my spine trying to fold in on itself, it's the sound of not fighting back, of letting the words die on my tongue again, god, i hate that i do that, still doing it even after dr. reeves says, says, says what doesn't matter, the silence is just louder. i keep trying to fill it with oat milk lattes and brene brown and journaling until my hand cramps, but the shape just gets bigger, a black hole where my voice used to be. it's like @Maya always says, we're all just echoes of something we lost, and maybe the silence is just the original sound, the one we can't get back, the one we're all trying to outrun. and when the boundary shakes that’s just it screaming to be heard i guess or maybe that’s just me