"One firm step," she said. As shallow as she must be, one could think she radiates midnight, and while no one is looking, her lips are similar to Burgundy—soaked in wine and in her drunken state; resting her body as she sat mellowly where no one would choose those seats made for her—deluding herself that there's just too much space in between, and they danced around each other's thick skin while their gazes were fixed on her. "One firm step," she says, straightening her back.
 
Every day, she'd meet her own grim reaper in the shade of the earth's brown mist, kissed by her long, thick lashes as she closed her eyes, surrounded by the people she considered dead. As strange as it was, they didn't know her. There's one string of luck hanging side by side in hopes that she'll live another day.
 
At dusk, she'll attempt to accompany the earth's body at her expense. She'll whisper nice things, and they'll blush at the thought of her noticing them. She'll offer her hand and kiss the molds, and her lips, the tint of burgundy, will now be the same pigment as the earth's body, and they'll chuckle at the sight of her.
 
When the world is laughing at her, death stands still in front of her, waiting for her presence, but she remains still. When the sky cries for her, she gives him rainbows and butterflies, even though he hates them. And when she's alone at night, she kisses the flies roaming around her bed while he thinks of her—but then again, the expression of death is inevitable. It seems like he doesn't want her to be happy. She lets Earth do what he wants with her, even if her skin glows like ivory. She lets him soak her in his dark mists and long-tailed veins, and death starts to interfere again.
 
He shows up in a crowded room with his thousands of soldiers, pretty faces, and partygoers. In his simple armor and at the grocery store, in his childlike appearance and beggar state. She must have been so exhausted from showing up minutes later or arriving at his usual business hour—midnight. Even with the screen, she usually spends the rest of her day. He shows up. Death was persistent. He signifies everything she could've had, even the voices implanted inside her. They named him Death. Sometimes he's a song, a lyric, or an instrument she could not quite understand; the ring before the call was answered; the tap before the keyboard; the lump before it washes down by the water; the movement before she lays her eyes on.
 
He was once a person she grew tired of—but now a metaphor she'll always keep in the back of her notebook. And sometimes, he is an anecdote every old person mentions in their hospital bed. She was shallow, but he was a willow tree.
A swamp.
A locust.
A lover once.

With heads ducked low and hoods pulled high
The Quiet walk through life
With their eyes shut
And their ears wide enough
To hear the softest of hearts
That beat in the chests of the Loud.

The Quiet is made of eerie spirits
Of happy and sad and empty human shells.
They watch as others lively live their days away
And only dream of one day whispering
To the life of the party
When the party comes alive.

They’ll say:
‘Why are you pretending?’

The Life of the Party,
So high on euphoric relationships
Will drink away the question
Like they hid away their sorrow.
And only at dawn when the alcohol fades
Will they panic at the question’s exposure.

The Quiet is made of strong shattered souls
That watch the Loud lie to themselves.
As the partygoers pretend to be painless,
The Quiet bathe in their hollow pasts
Until the cold waters become soothing enough
For the Quiet to gain the courage to speak.

They’ll say:
‘There is a Quiet within us all.’

With their soft voices and youthful wisdom
The Quiet live invisibly amongst the Loud.
And as they watch the world ignore its own misery
They’ll listen to the soft hearts of the sufferers
To convince the Loud that one day they’ll be strong enough
To suffer in silence.