Silent Battles in Loud Rooms By Heather Kays

I’ve mastered the art of nodding

in the right places—

of laughing on cue

when the room gets too bright

and everyone’s too drunk

to notice I’m breaking.

Music blaring,

voices overlapping,

smoke curling under exit signs,

and I’m here—

sipping something strong

to drown something stronger.

Someone touches my arm.

I flinch inside.

But I smile.

Because that’s what’s expected.

Because a quiet no

is safer than a loud scene.

I keep my back to the wall

and my face to the noise.

Eyes scanning for exits

like it's instinct—

because it is.

Because it has to be.

They say I’m fun.

Say I’m fearless.

Say I light up a room.

But they don’t see the fight

under my skin—

the war between stay calm

and run.

They don’t see the armor

stitched into my smile,

or how each joke I tell

is covering a scream.

This is survival,

camouflaged in glitter and gloss.

This is a battlefield

with no blood,

just breath

held too long.

And when I finally make it to the bathroom—

door locked,

music muffled—

I let my hands shake.

Let the silence scream.

Let the war catch up to me.

Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.