Anatomy of Silence

The Mouth

Holds a hush between the teeth.

The tongue curls around words that never left,

pressing them against enamel like prisoners against glass.

Silence here tastes of iron,

like bitten-back truth,

like blood you swallow so no one sees the wound.

The Throat

A corridor where silences queue,

each one waiting for release.

It is lined with echoes never sung,

choked hymns,

screams turned back at the border of breath.

Here the silence throbs,

like traffic that never moves.

The Lungs

Expand with fog.

They carry sighs too heavy to exhale,

ghost-breath lodged in the alveoli.

Sometimes, when you finally release it,

it escapes only in fragments—

a cough,

a sob,

a half-laugh swallowed in shame.

The Heart

Beats beneath muffled layers.

It has swallowed its thunder,

pressed its rhythm into whispers.

It does not ache from breaking—

but from being forced to beat too quietly

for too long.

The Hands

Gather silence in their palms.

Gestures aborted,

touches withheld.

They ache with the memory of what they never touched,

the warmth they almost held.

Fingers twitch at night,

as if still reaching.

The Stomach

Digests silence slowly.

Every unsaid word becomes a knot,

every unasked question a stone.

It fills until it feels like famine,

starving on secrets too dense to swallow.

The Blood

Carries silence in its current,

pulsing unspoken through every vein.

It is the rush you feel when you keep too much inside,

the heat that flushes the cheeks with everything

you could not say aloud.

The Spine

Stacks silence vertebra by vertebra,

a tower of secrets.

Each unspoken truth calcifies into bone,

rigid and heavy.

It bends with the weight of them,

but does not break.

Not yet.

The Bones

Are filled with silence like marrow.

Ancient hushes seeped deep,

long before you knew words at all.

They rattle when you move—

ancestral quiet passed down,

generation to generation.

The Skin

A parchment of silence,

inked with touch withheld.

Every shiver is a sentence unsaid.

Every scar is a story told without language.

It learns to carry the hush like armor,

until even warmth feels dangerous.

The Ears

Are caves where silence drips.

They hold the absence of voices never heard,

praises never spoken,

love never declared.

Sometimes, in the dark,

the silence roars louder than sound.

The Eyes

Are rivers brimming with silence.

Not always with tears,

but with the unspoken recognition

of what was seen but not named.

They glisten with the weight of it,

a flood dammed at the edges of vision.

The Brain

Is an archive of silence.

Hallways stacked with what-ifs,

rooms where memories curl in corners,

unspoken and unanalyzed.

It hums at night,

rewriting conversations that never happened,

arguments never voiced,

loves confessed only in dreams.

Silence is not absence.

It is a second body,

growing inside the first—

a skeleton of unspoken things,

a bloodstream of withheld words,

a landscape of muted organs.

It rattles softly whenever you move.

It whispers in your blood,

beats in your chest,

rests heavy in your bones.

And when you finally break the silence—

when you finally let it pour—

it does not vanish.

It transforms.

It grows wild like air at last freed from stone.