It’s 1:53 AM, and the silence is cruel,
not the kind that soothes
but the kind that pulls.

The shadows are whispering under the door,
and the walls remember what I tried to ignore.

The clock ticks like footsteps I’m scared to trace,
echoes of ghosts I refused to face.
The bed feels colder than it did before,
like someone left, but I’m not sure who anymore.

The moon don’t visit my window tonight,
just smoke from a memory choking the light.
My heartbeat sounds like a warning bell,
like even my ribs know I’m living in hell.

There’s a scream in my throat I can’t let out,
a storm in my lungs that circles doubt.
And the floorboards creak like they’re mourning too,
for the version of me that never made it through.

It’s 1:53, and the night won’t end,
time’s drunk on pain it won’t let bend.
No prayers left

just questions and smoke,
and a heart that beats just enough not to choke.