The Ones Who Survive Don’t Talk About It
(They just learn how to sit in the fire without making noise)Mark Willis — The Rewritten Path
The Silence That Doesn’t Echo
There’s a kind of silence that don’t echo.
It stays in the corners,
where light don’t reach
and prayers don’t land.
It’s not loud.
It don’t scream or announce itself.
It just is.
And when you’ve survived long enough, you stop noticing it’s there — like air pressure, or old pain.
I lived in that silence so long I thought it was home.
Death Without a Note
There was a time I used to wish for the kind of death that wouldn’t need explaining.
No notes. No autopsy.
Just gone.
No fuss. No slideshow of my baby pictures in a funeral program. Just one more soul swallowed by the dark.
I didn’t want to be remembered.
I wanted to be erased.
Not because I hated life—
but because I was tired of trying to prove I was worth keeping.
You start to wonder if absence would weigh less on the people you love than presence.
That’s not suicidal ideation the way therapists label it. That’s exhaustion carved deep into your bones.
Folding Quiet
The truth is, some of us don’t break loud.
We fold in on ourselves.
We keep showing up with tired eyes and fake laughter, hoping somebody, anybody, might look past the smile and say, “Hey… you alright?”
Most of the time, they don’t.
I remember sitting on the porch with Pawpaw after a long day, him sipping black coffee even though the sun was already down. He looked at me and said, “You carry it quiet, boy. But I can see it.”
That was the only time anyone called it out.
And even then, I just shrugged.
Because what else could I do?
You learn quick how to tuck pain beneath politeness.
How to carry grief like groceries.
How to bury parts of yourself so deep, you forget where the bodies are.
After the Breakdowns
Nobody teaches you what to do after the breakdowns stop coming.
Nobody talks about the stillness that creeps in after survival.
Because healing ain’t loud.
It ain’t a TED Talk or a sunrise montage.
It’s quiet. Uneven. Ugly.
It’s dragging yourself to bed every night knowing you didn’t fall apart — but also knowing you ain’t whole either.
I remember one night, lying flat in the dark, scrolling through old texts just to remember who I used to be before the storm. The glow of the screen on my face, the silence thick enough to choke me. That’s not healing. That’s haunting.
Surrounded but Unseen
You know what’s worse than being alone?
Being surrounded and unseen.
Being the strongest person in the room and still the most broken one there.
Being the one people lean on while your own back is buckling.
Mamaw used to tell me, “You’re steady, Markie. That’s what people love about you.”
She meant it as praise.
But steadiness can become a mask.
Nobody notices when the steady one is crumbling.
No Room for Pity
I don’t want pity.
I want understanding.
I want space for the days when I can’t be wise, or poetic, or inspirational.
Some days, I’m just here — not healed, not enlightened, not a damn guru. Just… here.
And that’s the victory.
Living With Ghosts
I know what it’s like to replay old fights in my head, arguing with ghosts who never show up to listen.
I know what it’s like to see my daughter smile and wonder if I’ve already damaged her more than I can fix.
They say time heals everything.
I say time just teaches you how to limp without looking like you’re in pain.
And limping is still forward motion, but it don’t feel like victory.
Questions That Don’t Fade
Here’s the part I never wanted to admit:
Some nights, I still lay awake wondering if I mattered to the people I almost died for.
If they even think about me.
If their silence is peace,
and mine is punishment.
That’s the kind of thought that don’t fade.
It just goes quiet.
Staying Anyway
But here’s what I do know—
I stayed.
When it made no sense.
When I wanted to disappear.
When all I had left was a name and a pulse.
I stayed.
Not because I had a reason.
But because some part of me refused to give them the ending they expected.
And now?
Now I write.
Not for applause.
Not for followers.
Not even for the “you’re so strong” comments.
I write because I need to leave a map for the ones still in the fire.
A field manual for the quiet ones.
The tired ones.
The ones nobody checked on.
The ones who got back up anyway.
Benediction for the Quiet
You ain’t broken.
You’re rewritten.
So if you’re still here — somehow, against all odds — I see you.
Stay.
Even when the fire makes no sense.
Breathe.
Even when the silence feels like punishment.
Rewrite.
Even if all you can manage today is one line, one step, one stubborn refusal to quit.
Because survival isn’t loud.
It’s not pretty.
It’s not applause.
It’s this:
you’re still here.
And I swear to God, that’s enough.
https://open.substack.com/pub/blackcoffeecreative/p/suicide-anthology-part-i?r=54va7z&utm_medium=ios
Incredible grouping of poetry on staying that i am honored to be in i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed your post
This hit me hard. The quiet, folding-in-on-yourself kind of survival you describe is so familiar, yet rarely acknowledged. I love how you honor the small, unseen victories—the staying, the breathing, the tiny steps forward. Writing like this feels even more exposing than a photograph could ever be; it shows the courage it takes to carry pain openly and still exist in the world. Thank you for holding up that mirror for all of us who have hidden behind smiles.