When Silence Starts Screaming

There are versions of me that don’t take turns—they take territory.

One of them is soft enough to pass, to smile, to keep the world calm.

Another one is pure hunger: sharp, loud, reckless, and tired of being caged. I feel her pacing behind my ribs, tracing the seams of my patience, waiting for the smallest weakness to slip through.

People think I’m moody. They think I’m “a lot.”

They don’t understand it’s not a mood—it’s a negotiation.

Every day I’m deciding who gets to speak, who gets to touch the wheel, who gets to be seen.

And when I’m quiet, it isn’t peace.

It’s containment.

Because if I let go for even a second, she won’t just come out—she’ll rewrite me.