I Learned to Sit Still Because It Hurt Less That Way

They told me stillness was a virtue,
that calm was strength,
and silence truth.
But no one asked why I stopped moving,
why I froze instead of speaking youth.

I didn’t stop because I healed–
I stopped because movement revealed.
Every twitch invited questions
I couldn’t bear,
every breath too deep
turned into a stare.

So I learned to fold my hands just right,
to nod when spoken to,
soft and light.
To stare past windows,
never through,
to answer, “Fine,”
like it was true.

I learned to sit still
because it hurt less that way.
When I froze,
they stopped trying
to change what I’d say.
Stillness meant fewer notes,
fewer pills,
and a smile drawn neat
between the drills.
It wasn’t peace.
It was just the safest place I could stay.