Still Bracing

I. The State
There’s something I’ve been carrying
I haven’t had the nerve to say out loud.
I live between two states—
hyper-aware of every movement,
every noise, every possible threat—
or so far gone I can’t feel my body,
hovering behind my eyes,
watching the scene unfold
from a corner of the ceiling.

One part of me shouts:
stay alert or something bad will happen.
The other:
this is too much. shut it down.

I drift between them
like a camera left running
in an empty room.
Not really present.
Not really gone.
Not safe.
Just… tense.

II. The Body
There’s a hum in my shoulders
that never shuts off.
A pressure behind the eyes
like weather building.

I pass.
I function.

But the body knows—
it’s still bracing for the crash
that never comes.

And the only time
anything lets go
is when I’m alone.

That’s the only time
the lights dim,
the sound softens,
and my body
sets the weapon down.

No tracking tone.
No mapping exits.
No bracing for a voice
that breaks my balance.
Just quiet.
Just breath.
Just me.
Stillness in a chair
that doesn’t ask questions.

III. The Want
But even that—
even that still carries grief.

Because I want closeness.
I want to hand this to someone
without losing my shape.

I want to be seen,
but not swallowed.
I want to rest,
but not disappear.

I don’t know what to do with this.
But I know what silence feels like.

And I know it’s time
I stopped pretending
I don’t.