I wake up with pressure where peace should be.
Tight chest, cold hands—
like my body’s got bad news it won’t share with me.
I open my eyes, but the war’s already started.
No trigger, no trauma—just wired and guarded.

People say “you’re good, just breathe,”
like lungs are the problem.
Like air ever fixed the kind of drowning I do in silence.
I’m not sad.
I’m not mad.
I’m just… off.
And nobody sees it when the switch flips soft.

I laugh on cue.
I answer, “I’m fine.”
But inside, I’m pacing the edge of a line
I can’t name.
I can’t cross.
I can’t leave behind.

You ever feel scared for no reason at all?
Like your bones remember something you don’t recall?
Like you’re the only one in a room full of light
who’s being followed by shadows no one else fights?

It’s not drama.
It’s not weak.
It’s a weight you carry in your teeth—
locked jaw, clenched fists, fake calm.
A panic that wears your face and moves on.

Some nights I just stare at the ceiling,
trying to outrun a thought I’m not even feeling.
I pray for stillness but get static instead—
a quiet so loud it screams in my head.

This ain’t for pity. This ain’t for show.
This is survival. This is let go or blow.
This is for every heartbeat I had to fake.
Every smile I stitched for everyone’s sake.

So if I ever seem distant, short, or strange—
I’m not cold.
I’m in chains.
Fighting to breathe in a body that blames
me
for the storm I didn’t choose,
for a mind that tightens every fuse.

Anxiety don’t knock. It just breaks in.
Puts its feet up and asks how I’ve been.
So I tell it—
“You again?”
It smiles.
“Yeah. You know I live in your skin.”