When I was small, I couldn’t see why pain could be your poetry. How gently you would draw the line, on skin that never once was fine. I thought you were so brave, so calm— to carve your ache without alarm. But morning came, and you looked frail, your breathing caught, your body pale. The tremor took what strength you had, and left you shaking, scared, and sad. As if a ghost crept through your chest, cold sweat upon your temples pressed. A silent war, no one could name— anxiety—its cruel flame. I froze, unsure of what to do, while fear kept whispering through you. I said, just don’t let voices near. You said, they’re louder when you’re here. I said, don’t think, just let it go. You said, you think I don’t try so? You said it felt like death, but slow— fear eating what you used to know. Your heart too small to fight within, those whispers crawling ‘neath your skin. Like insects you could never see, they bite your thoughts, relentlessly. Though deep inside you knew it’s fake, you trembled still—too real to shake.