I am the silence that speaks

I cannot cry the tears that rise when my heart breaks. So I draw them as words. Each letter, a silent scream. I am a mute soul, my voice sealed in ink. My pages speak for me. I am the stillness between breath and ache, a quiet presence that tides through pain— not broken, but breaking open. I am a boat adrift on a sacred river, with a wound in my side— still floating, still treading water, afraid, yet held by unseen hands. I am the blank page— so white, so still— and every word I write is the echo of my emptiness becoming full. I am not just this ache, not just this ink. I am the hush beneath the storm, the spark that refuses to dim. I am the silence that speaks.