The Breaking

The slow, invisible collapse of self beneath the weight no one sees

The Breaking
It comes softly,
without warning,
not shattering,
just a quiet split,
like old wood in winter,
giving way beneath the weight
we all pretend
we do not carry.

You call out,
but the echoes fold
into themselves.
No footsteps.
No names.
Only the familiar hush
of a world that doesn’t answer
in the hours you are breaking.

You remind yourself
it’s not that no one cares,
only that care rarely arrives
on the timeline
of collapse.

And in that silence,
you wonder,
when you became too quiet,
too still,
too easy to leave behind.

Ache memorized your shape.
Loneliness learned your name,
both disguising themselves
as independence.

Because at the lowest point,
it isn’t strength you feel,
but the cold of the floor,
the ache of waiting,
and the slow collapse of hope
into corners
no one else sees.

And there you stay,
half-shadow,
half-body,
measuring time in heartbeats
no one else hears,
waiting for any proof
that the silence
has not swallowed you whole.