Silent Screams

Who needs enemies

when I can’t be my own friend?

I’m a lighthouse burning out—

guiding others while I descend.

I hand out light like borrowed flame,

but never warm myself the same.

To them, I’m calm, I’m grounded, whole—

inside, a storm I can’t control.

My smile’s a mask made out of glass—

cracked and clear, but none see past.

My voice—a violin with broken strings,

still playing songs no rescue brings.

I stitch up others, thread by thread,

then bleed alone inside my head.

A mirror hung with fog and doubt,

I’m in there screaming to get out.

I am the lock.

I am the key.

I am the wound

that won’t let me be.

I cast my hope like paper boats,

but watch them sink with dreams they float.

I toss out lines no one can see—

then curse the world for losing me.

I build the cage, then beg release.

I pray for war, but long for peace.

And every time I try to mend,

I sabotage.

Begin.

Pretend.

Who needs enemies

when shadows grow from your own skin?

When silence screams

the loudest from within?

And here’s the truth I’ve fought to say:

I do want help. I want to stay.

I want someone to hear my cry—

the one I choke

and tuck inside.

I smile, I nod, I play the part,

but silent screams still flood my heart.

I need someone to truly see—

to reach inside

and rescue me.