His poetry isn’t bleeding for you, nor is it for himself. All he wants is to place his pain somewhere — on paper, in words, simply in something safer than a conversation. But fear clings to his mind like it always does. Because what if he doesn’t know how to tell someone the truth? What if he can’t say it right? What if all that comes out is stutters and silence? Like his tongue forgot how to move, how to shape anything other than a breath held too long. His throat tightens before words get a chance to start forming, like his body flinches from expression — an old habit he’s trying to get rid of. And what if he never learned the language of truth at all? It’s foreign to him.

Maybe he should stay quiet. It’s safer, right? Because sometimes silence is shelter, other times it’s a way to drown. And now he’s conflicted. He wonders if he’s stuck in that web of numbness, waiting patiently for the spiders to return. He can’t scream for help. The sound won’t come as they are trapped too. Maybe he can’t say how he feels or even ask for help. Maybe he can’t even stay silent when he should.

His words twist around his lungs, forcing him to choke on himself. He can’t breathe. He can’t stand it anymore, the sound of his heart pulsating. It’s too loud. Even silence can feel loud when you’re hurting. Because what if he can’t speak? The cat’s got his tongue, curled claws deep — and doesn’t want to give it back. The silence he feels is almost alive, like it feeds off his fear. Silence is craving their next meal.