Grief takes over the speaker's body here, and the most striking thing is how quiet it stays. The poem opens with agitation "climbing the rungs of my spine," a picture of restlessness rising slowly, step by step, until it reaches the head. The limbs twist "in all angles," and the knees and elbows bend "over time," which suggests this isn't a single moment of pain but something that drags on and wears the speaker down.
Then the poem turns inward. Digging nails into the ground feels like an attempt to hold on to something solid, while the speaker mourns "what was mine." We never learn what was lost, and that vagueness lets the loss feel raw and personal. The final lines bring the contrast into focus: blood rushes loudly in the ears, yet the speaker "doesn't make a sound." The title now makes sense, because the suffering is loud inside and silent outside. The mood is tense, claustrophobic, and heavy with held-back emotion.