This Email Is a Eulogy
They call it composure. I call it drowning in plain sight. Read this if you’ve ever answered an email with blood in your mouth.
They see the file.
The sign-off.
The tidy subject line—
like a headstone.
They clap for how quickly
you bury yourself for them—
heartbeat stuffed into an outbox,
exhaustion disguised as
No problem at all!
They never see the cost:
the pulse galloping behind your grin,
the jaw aching
from holding back a howl
that could crack
the ceiling tiles.
The throat knotted shut
to keep truth
from dripping
into the keyboard.
They love you helpful,
unbothered,
the good coworker,
the good man—
the one who answers
before he breathes,
who thanks them
for handing him
his own bones to carry.
Step one: open the draft.
Step two: rewrite
I’m drowning
as
Hope this finds you well.
Step three: attach the file.
Steady your hands.
Swallow the scream.
Sign it warm.
Click send.
Your inbox is a grave.
Your calendar,
a map of small burials.
Your bathroom stall,
a confession booth
where your ribs creak
from pretending
you’re not on fire.
You dab your face dry
with paper towels
that can’t absorb
what’s coming undone.
You practice breathing
like it isn’t
hurting you.
This isn’t a complaint.
It’s a threat
dressed in quiet.
The next time
my throat wants to split open,
I might just let it.
Let them see the blood.
Let them hear the roar
beneath every
Thanks for your patience
I never meant.
Better they flinch at the mess
than keep mistaking
my stillness
for permission
to keep feeding on me clean.
You’re not a subscriber,
you’re a co-conspirator.
This is a room where silence loses every time we open our teeth together.
Stay. Bring your confession.
Bring your version too loud for polite company.
Here, your rage is holy.
Your softness is armed.
Your boundaries are not up for polite debate.
Every poem you read here is a rib torn loose, a page refusing to stay dead.
Soon they’ll bind themselves into a living thing called Shadow Thoughts: The Silence That Kept Me.
Not tidy self-help but a mirror that won’t flinch when you do.
I don’t know when it’ll wear a spine and a barcode.
I don’t care.
It’s alive now.
Feral. Soft. Dripping on your screen whether you’re ready or not.
Stay loud enough to make the polite ones flinch.
Stay honest enough to scare the hush that raised you.
Stay. We’re louder together.
P.S.
If this stirred something in you,
it might speak to someone else too.
Feel free to pass it on.
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