They call it overthinking,
like it’s a crime scene in my head—
but baby, these thoughts?
They’re the only witnesses left alive.
See, I’ve been quiet long enough
to know that silence isn’t peace—
it’s camouflage.
It’s me making sure the world doesn’t bite
before I bare my own teeth.
They say, “You think too much.”
I say, “You feel too little.”
Because when I replay every conversation,
every tone, every side glance,
it’s not obsession—
it’s survival strategy.
I’ve walked through too many storms
to not check the forecast twice.
I’ve had love turn venom,
so yeah—sometimes I look for snakes
in every garden that smells too sweet.
My rumination isn’t weakness.
It’s the echo of a girl
who learned that being loud
didn’t always mean being heard.
So now, I whisper to myself
until I can roar again—
and when I do,
it won’t be gentle.
Call it anxiety, call it trauma,
call it whatever makes it easier to swallow—
but I call it intuition sharpened by pain.
Every loop in my mind
is another lock I’ve learned to pick.
Every sleepless night
is another blueprint of what to never fall for again.
So don’t confuse my stillness with surrender.
I’m not waiting—
I’m observing.
I’m rebuilding.
I’m healing loudly inside my own head.
Because my rumination isn’t silence—
it’s the sound of survival.
It’s my mind keeping score
of every time I made it out alive.
And I did.
Every. Damn. Time.
