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Pain has no ceremony. No rituals. No end. When something inside you dies; love, trust, hope; the world doesn’t pause. It moves on like nothing happened. But you know better. You know what it feels like to walk around carrying a funeral no one else can see. Some deaths happen outside the body. Some happen within. And they leave behind something worse than scars; they leave behind silence.

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The heart does not break like glass,
It rots like old meat in the sun,
Soft at first, then black,
Then gone.

Smiles do not vanish overnight,
They curdle like milk left out,
Until even your lips
Taste bitter in their sleep.

Pain does not stab from outside,
It crawls under the skin like worms,
Gnawing, gnawing endlessly,
Feasting slow on all that’s warm.

There are deaths nobody counts,
Quiet murders of trust,
Mass funeral pyres of little hopes,
Ashes to ashes; dust to dust,

Eyes become dry from screaming,
Throats choke on words unsaid,
Skin wears the colour of stone,
Breathing becomes less than dead.

Days walk past like strangers,
Nights sit heavy like blood,
Rooms stink of old laughter,
Floors sticky with dried-up love.

The worst part of dying inside
Is not the dying, it’s this:
To look alive in mirrors,
To answer when someone calls.

But deep beneath the ribs,
Where names still crawl like lice,
You know what no one sees,
Something has died twice.

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Pain changes shape. That’s all it does. It becomes quieter, colder, better dressed. But it never really leaves. It just moves deeper; from the eyes to the bones, from the voice to the dreams, until one day you no longer remember what it was like to feel clean. There is no grave for this kind of dying. No stone to mark the place. Just a body walking around like nothing happened; and a death still breathing inside it.

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