There is a strange comfort in silence.

It's suffocating. Nauseating. Dreadful. But the heaviness hangs like a drug. Noises muted, cries muffled up, wrists itching, throat raw for a drop of water. It hurts inside your head, the chest heaving up and down, breath stuck somewhere wrong, heart thumping with slow, mellow beats.

You are too tired to get up. Your eyes are still dry, shrunken more than yesterday. The fingers embracing your skin, legs quivering beneath the feet, your shadow grasping onto you so tightly.

The people behind those doors, dried out of words, not arguing anymore. Not tempted to hate as they drown themselves in vicious liquid.

Everything happens around you, but there is nothing saving you.

You are tied up, pent-up with emotions and broken sentiments. You wish to cry a sea, but there is only the ocean and not an inhabitant.

It's calming. comforting. confusing.

It still hurts around your wrists. But it hurts more inside. The words that spewed out of his mouth, the things she said, what they made you feel---everything hurts.

But there is silence.

And it's cotton to your ears, ivory to your lips.

And Miso hopes for the silence to stay.