This mouth of mine is not my own. Only echoes leak through the impenetrable walls of this body - this display of self. I am not this skin. I am not this voice. I am a ghost in a fortress: a presence pressing palms against the ribcage, waiting for the fracture that sets me free.
People listen, yet I remain unheard. I play my part in this performance, yet I am not false - just incomplete. There is no lie, only the ache of half-truths, warped in translation between soul and skin. Perpetually misunderstood. Unable to weave thought into something whole, something true.
This is a silent violence: to live suspended in the liminal, between who I am and who I appear to be. And yet we must endure. Perhaps the ghost is not trapped, but patiently waiting. Watching. Waiting for the walls to soften - and flesh, at last, lets the soul speak.
Until then, I linger between worlds: half seen, half heard, hoping someone, somewhere, knows the language of silence.
