I swallow the storm and lock the windows tight, terrified that if I open my mouth to speak the heavy truths of this life, the words will somehow take root in the soil and multiply the wreckage threefold. I have been taught that energy is a current that obeys the call, so I hold my breath, pretending the silence is a shield, keeping a lid on the bitter ash of those who came only to take and the distant grief of one I cannot fix. I play the anchor for everyone else while my own marrow thins, while my arm throbs with the quiet, exhausting war my body is fighting against the thief inside me. I watch the illuminated happiness of friends from the shadows of my own quiet room, aching for a heavy, protective embrace, a simple heartbeat to ground my tired bones, yet I keep the longing locked away in the dark, paralyzing my own voice out of a desperate survival instinct – convinced that to give this pain a name is to give it a permanent home. But a quiet,vital truth is breaking through the silence: giving breath to this grief is not an act of creation, but one of evacuation. To speak these words is not to plant a seed of negativity, but to clear out the stagnant weight of a house that has been sealed too long, acknowledging that energy cannot be destroyed, only transformed. Manifestation thrives on intention and focus, but this is a release, a necessary emptying of the lungs that converts raw pain into poetry, proving that I can speak the dark aloud without making it permanent, and that naming the storm is the only way to finally let it pass through me.