Strong Enough to Drown Without Sound
So when I dropped, not suddenly, but slowly. In the quiet way things die when no one checks, they looked down like I betrayed them. Why didn’t you say something?
I held it all.
The rage that chewed the inside of my jaw.
The grief that curled behind my ribs
like a blade tucked in for later.
The sick need
to be fucking witnessed
without performing pain like a trick.
They said:
Be solid.
Be unmoved.
Be the kind of man who doesn’t break—
just bears it.
So I did.
Built walls in my throat
thicker than the ones in my house.
Stopped bleeding in front of people
because it made them nervous.
They clapped.
Called me “rock.”
Called me “strong.”
But rocks don’t float.
They sink.
Every damn time.
So when I dropped,
not suddenly,
but slowly.
In the quiet way things die
when no one checks,
they looked down like I betrayed them.
Why didn’t you say something?
Because you trained me
to wear silence like armor.
Because you built me
for stillness,
not survival.
You wanted a monument.
Not a man.
Something heavy enough
to hold your projections,
but light enough
to carry your guilt.
Endurance is not healing.
It’s decay with discipline.
It’s knowing the room is on fire
and choosing not to scream.
So don’t call me stoic.
Don’t call me brave.
Call me what I am—
sinking,
because I was never allowed
to surface.
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