Before the world wakes, the body remembers what silence tried to erase— and the rest is silence. Self-portrait by Taqwa Al-Wawi

My eyes open before the light finds the room—
outside my window the world explodes, but what scares me more
is the silence inside where estrangement blooms, like a bruise

My chest holds my scream, like a window sealed against the wind

My hands write friends’ names over and over,
as if the ink might hold them together

My fingers tremble, reaching for what’s no longer there

My teeth clench around a future I can’t bear to taste

My tongue curls around hunger, bitter as rust

My legs keep walking on blistered feet, because stopping means surrender

My mouth, once filled with laughter and bread, now tastes only ash

My chest tightens, longing for the version of me before the burning

My eyes can’t ever close, fixed on all we’ve lost

Outside, the sky’s indifferent gaze spills over what used to be a home—
no more walls, no more roof, just rubble, cradling ghosts
Inside, silence rewrites my body in a language only the broken understand