Gnawing Silence

It starts when the clock says morning
but the light outside feels counterfeit.
You rise,
but only because gravity is patient enough
to pull you from bed without asking.

The air tastes stale.
The walls lean in just close enough
to remind you you’re not going anywhere.
And maybe that’s fine—
maybe you were never going anywhere anyway.

People talk about hope
like it’s a candle in the dark.
Mine’s just wax now,
brittle and cold,
a dead thing with no reason to burn.

You stop looking for meaning
because every time you’ve found it,
it’s rotted in your hands
before you could even hold it right.

The silence isn’t quiet anymore.
It hums.
It crawls under your skin.
It knows your name better than your own voice does.

You realize the hunger isn’t for food.
It’s for the version of yourself
that might have lived
if the world hadn’t chewed you up
and spat you back into the same bed
you’ll die in.