The absence is loud, so I stay silent

I could have spoken about how heavy my heart has been. About how the emotions that shape my life and existence became unintentionally tied to a couch I soaked with tears the day I found out. How grief announced itself not with chaos, but with permanence

I could have spoken about the way silence pushed me toward vices I didn’t yet have names for. Habits veiled beneath a sweet-boy appearance, coping mechanisms that learned to hide before I did. I could have shouted for help as my neck faded from view, swallowed whole by dark waters of grief. When voices called out, asking if anyone was still alive, I could have raised my hand. I could have murmured softly, just enough to rescue myself from the pile of dead bodies that looked suspiciously like me

I didn’t

I could have breathed words of despair into the hollow space left behind by failed attempts to resuscitate my spirit. When the loudness of absence deafened my ears, I could have crafted music from the notes of love I never quite learned how to accept. I could have covered my ears and listened.

Instead, I chose silence.

I dressed it up. Gave it an attractive presence. Took it out into the world and let it dance with my sorrows. I buried my hands in quicksand, hoping they would sink faster, hoping the struggle would end quietly, without witnesses

Eleven years later, I stand here and the eleven year-old me is still alive somewhere. He is building a spaceship loud enough for me to hear, strong enough to reach me. He moves through the ruins I built from unprocessed death, navigating the wreckage I mistook for protection. He is searching for me because he is slowly dying too, and he is hoping, desperately, that I will finally accept the hand he is reaching out with

So now I am faced with the question silence never prepared me for

Will I let silence win

And bury him forever?

Or will I plant flowers from my dying roots?