Silent Storms

By Amna Salman

I stand at the edge of the crowd—

A sea of faces, too loud, too proud.

My heart races, my voice grows thin,

Trapped in my chest, fighting to begin.

My words—

They tremble like leaves in the wind,

Suffocated by doubt,

By the thought of how I’ll be pinned.

What if they judge? What if they see

That my confidence is a lie,

And inside, I’m not who I seem to be?

I speak to friends—

But the silence is louder.

Laughter, too bright, too soft, too proud,

My mind spins, caught in the hum—

Of all the things I should say,

But can't—

Of how I should fit in, but I feel like I’m breaking apart,

Unseen in the flood of their easy hearts.

I wonder why I fight to be here—

To interact, to smile, to speak.

What would it be like to just disappear?

To live in a place where the silence is sleek.

A world with no questions, no demands,

Where I don’t have to hold out my trembling hands.

A place where my breath can be mine—

Not shared with a thousand eyes

That want to pull out the thoughts I keep locked inside.

Oh, how I long for the quiet of night,

For the space where words lose their bite,

Where the only sound is the hum of my thoughts

And the pressure of speaking, the battle, is not.

But I’m here, in the room, holding my skin,

Trying to speak, trying to fit in.

And it’s heavy. It’s exhausting.

It’s the battle of living and not—

But for now, I stand,

Hoping I don’t get caught.

By Amna Salman