I have learned the architecture of disappearance.
How to fold myself into corners of rooms
where even light forgets to linger.
There are feelings I keep unnamed,
wild, half-formed creatures
that only breathe after midnight.
In daylight, they behave.
They wear ironed expressions.
They nod at conversations like polite strangers.
Loneliness is not loud.
It is a glass of water left untouched,
gathering the patience of dust.
It is the echo that chooses not to return.
It is the art of sitting beside your own pulse
and pretending you do not hear it asking questions.
I have swallowed words
until they turned into constellations inside my ribs.
Some nights they rearrange themselves,
spelling truths I refuse to read.
It is easier to vanish.
To become a quieter version of breath.
To let the world assume you are fine
because you mastered the grammar of composure.
Pain, when hidden long enough,
does not scream.
It distills.
It becomes something colder, clearer.
A blade of understanding
you carry beneath your tongue.
And when I return,
I am not softer.
I am sediment.
Layered.
Pressed by the weight of unspoken seasons.
You will call it maturity.
You will call it strength.
You will not know
how much of me had to disappear
to build it.