The Cry, the Words, the Feelings — Wanting to Be Seen, Then Wanting to Disappear

 

The Cry, the Words, the Feelings — Wanting to Be Seen, Then Wanting to Disappear

There’s a cry that rips out of you — not with sound, but with silence.
The kind of cry that doesn’t echo off walls, but off the inside of your skull.
The kind of cry that climbs past your throat, past your pride, and crashes into something bigger than you.

The cry that makes its way to God.

Because no one else hears it.
No one else wants to.
It’s the cry you let loose when you’re done pretending you’re okay.
When you’ve already tried screaming into pillows, writing in journals, talking to walls — and none of it made a dent.

So you look up. Or maybe not even. Maybe you just sit there, not looking anywhere, and still — something inside you begs.
Begs for mercy.
For understanding.
For release.

The cry that makes its way to God.

Because you’ve stopped trying to make it to people.
Because people disappoint.
Because people ask what’s wrong, but flinch when you answer honestly.
Because you’re tired of explaining pain that has no story.

Then something changes.

The cry that no longer wants to be noticed.

The kind that sinks into your skin instead of clawing out.
You don’t cry anymore to be saved.
You cry like it’s just part of breathing now.

---

The words that want to be heard.

You write them. Whisper them. Shout them inside your head.
They come at night.
They hit you in the middle of conversations, during long walks, in between meaningless tasks.
They press against your throat like they’re begging to be set free.

“Please hear me.”
“Please understand me.”
“Please notice I’m breaking.”

You want someone to hear “I’m fine” and know it’s a lie.
You want someone to catch the hidden meaning behind your sarcasm.
You want someone to feel the weight of your silence without needing words.

But that kind of listener doesn’t exist.

So the words rot inside you.

The words that no longer want to be heard.

They give up.
They settle into your gut like lead.
You start deleting your messages before sending them.
You stop picking up calls.
You stop even thinking about reaching out.

Because what’s the point?

No one listens to echoes.
No one cares about broken records.
No one waits for the same tired pain.

So the words shut up.
And that’s when it gets worse.

---

The feelings that want to be expressed.

They used to fight to the surface.
Used to punch their way through your ribs, demanding attention.
Grief. Rage. Love. Shame. Guilt. Longing.

You tried to explain them. In art. In texts. In tears.
You wanted someone to see the mess inside you and say, “Yeah, I get it.”
You wanted to throw your soul on the table and not have it judged or pitied — just witnessed.

You wanted to be felt.

The feelings that no longer want to be noticed.

Now they just sit there.
Heavy. Quiet. Familiar.

You don’t even flinch when they show up anymore.
You’ve learned to carry them like background noise — annoying, but livable.
There’s no more expression. No more attempt.

Because you’ve learned that people fear depth.
They praise vulnerability, but only when it’s polished and packaged.
They don’t want to sit with your raw, bleeding truth.
They want Instagram captions and digestible sadness.

So the feelings stay locked inside.
Not because you’re okay.
But because you’ve learned that hiding them hurts less than the disappointment of showing them.

---

This Is What Silence Looks Like

It’s not peace.
It’s not healing.
It’s a funeral for every version of yourself that wanted to be understood.

The cry.
The words.
The feelings.

They all once screamed.
Now they whisper.
Now they vanish.
Now they haunt.