Fluttering against the screams
Like the silent echoes they can’t hear.
Questioning the meanings
Of the things they never said.
Torturous moments of pain
That paint the scenery on your walls,
Slow brush strokes to antagonize every moment.
These are the broken pieces,
Fragmented across your life,
That control the crystallized teardrops you cry,
Safe in your bedroom.
Where there is no sound
But the cracking of your mind
And the groaning of your bones.
Compressed into soft syllables
Whispered in the night
To ink and moon and stars and blood
Until the veins are empty
And the ink bled out,
Until no other sound utters
And no other soul knows.