I unspool the silence,
shed the smallness
in my head.

I take it all in,
let my voice swell—
and no longer ask
permission to exit the room.

I am trying to stop looking for you
signs or silence, there's nothing to decipher
no run-ins or coincidence
I don't even know if it'd satisfy
a glimpse of a life
that still holds out hope
for me, for us
because for all I know
that doesn't exist anymore

They raised a cathedral for hesitation’s specters,
a mausoleum where half-lived fates fester beneath glass,
each relic a carcass of fractured intent.

Here, a breath lingers in crystal—
a stillborn confession, lips parted, words calcified mid-escape.
Beside it, a rusted key entombed in velvet,
a relic of an unbreached threshold,
a house collapsing under the silence of absent footsteps.

In the west wing, violins lie gutted,
their spines snapped mid-requiem,
melodies strangled before they ever touched air.
Across the hall, a wedding gown—pristine, untouched,
its silk sodden with the ghost of a name
almost taken, then discarded
like an unclaimed prophecy.

The curator drifts through corridors of regret,
brushing dust from the obituaries of roads never walked,
straightening the portraits of lovers who almost stayed,
of letters that withered in trembling hands,
then were entombed in the graveyard of never sent.
The air itself swells with the dirges of forsaken dreams,
whispering in the tongue of the undone,
suffocating in the thick rot of inertia.

And at the hall’s end—a mirror.
No plaque, no inscription, no mercy.
Just your own reflection staring back,
begging you to walk out before you, too,
become part of the collection.

Will you leave, or will you be archived next?

When you are silent,
I suffer in silence.

For hours on end,
You don't reply.
Even though I see you online.

Off, then On.
On, then Off.
The silence?
It is loud.

Many others you meet,
And all of them you greet.
A warm welcome, a fond goodbye.

On, then Off.
Off, then On.
The silence?
It's painful.

Many days later,
I get an answer.
Many words, so little meaning.

Off, then On.
On, then Off.
The message?
It cuts deep.

When I remain silent,
I suffer regardless.

You ask, I don't reply.
I require rebuilding
Lest I die, I will need some time.

Always On, never Off.
Never Off, always On.
My silence?
It's T o r t u r e.

A room in the basement,
A room that knew too much,
Too dark to leave behind.
I was tired,
Heavy with sorrow.
She never asked why—
Never asked me to speak.
The clutter in my mind didn’t matter to her.
I was dragged onto the bed,
A hand pressing into my back,
My body slammed against the wall,
Her rage leaving marks on my skin—
A scar that won’t heal.

"I don’t want to do this, but here we are."
A whisper, lost in the chaos.
Words echo through the house,
Where love is twisted,
Where kindness never crosses the doorstep.

"I’m not sure I can... ma yelled at me again."
For the smallest things,
For being human.
Her voice drowns out my heart,
Slicing through the silence.
She tells me I'm a failure,
A burden,
A disappointment.
She says she’ll pull me from school,
Keep me locked away.
Send me far from everything I dream.

She hit me,
And still, she says,
"You'll never leave. You’re going to fail."
But where do I go when pain is all I know?
When bruises map my body,
And rage paves my path?
I cry,
Not for the sting of her hand,
But for the death of my dreams.
Her words press down,
Venom laced with promises of no future.
"You’re just going to be a ghetto rat,"
She spits at my dreams of college,
And I feel it sting,
Because maybe she's right.
Maybe she’s serious about keeping me here.

I falter,
Assignments abandoned—
Not from carelessness,
But confusion,
And the walls close in.
When she touches me,
It’s not a caress,
But a painful grip,
Pinching, scratching.
Her voice hisses like a snake:
"Stop acting so self-conscious. You look ******* stupid."
Her hands on my body,
"Why does my touch make you uncomfortable? I’m not hurting you, stop it."
Uninvited,
Unwanted.
But I stay silent,
Too afraid,
Too small beneath her control.

Why does my body feel like it belongs to her?
Why does she think it’s okay to touch me
Like I’m nothing but a possession to bend to her will?
"What’s wrong, my perfect, spoiled little *****?"
Her voice smooth as poison,
"This is what you wanted."
A trap she set long ago.

I try to hold my head high,
But the ceiling feels lower every day.
Her anger shakes me,
Her wrath pushing me into the wall.
She screams at every mistake,
Even when I’m just trying to breathe.

"Z is going to be a tattooed dolled-up ****."
Her words sear,
Carving into my skin.
No matter how hard I try,
I will never be enough.
"I think you’d all be better off without me,"
Her voice trembles,
Heavy with her own misery.
But her despair is hers alone.
I’m just trying to survive the day.

"She’s not going to get a job, she’s lazy like I am."
Her words break me,
Glass shards piercing deep.
She doesn’t see me, doesn’t hear me—
Only sees her failures reflected in me.
A mirror of everything she fears.
And I am not the reflection I want to be.

No matter how loud she screams,
Her hurt doesn’t change the truth.
I am more than the sum of her expectations.
"I’m just the nasty ***** that nags and yells at everyone, aren’t I?"
Her words echo,
But they are not mine.

The house is never quiet,
Not when the walls scream with her rage.
"We’ve been in a bump since my dad moved in."
A home built on silence,
Where no one speaks the truth,
Fearing the storm it might wake.
"I feel like we’re doing all this just to get X into high school and college."
But what of me?
What of my hopes that fade in the corners of my mind?
What of the quiet nights
When I hear her rage but never her love?

"Maybe we should’ve never adopted Y and Z."
I drown in her words,
In the pit of their failures.
Because I’m not just a kid—
I’m a punching bag.
And her fists land on my body,
But the damage runs deeper than skin.

"I don’t care if I ruin it all, I’m leaving."
Her rage blinds her to the harm she causes.
Her fists, her words—
They shatter me.
I am left alone in the wreckage,
Wondering how to rebuild myself,
How to make her see me.

In my dreams, I flee,
But the house always calls me back,
With its cold floors and walls that whisper lies.
"We’re messy people,"
She says.
But it’s not the mess in the house—
It’s the mess in our hearts.

A house built on silence,
A body that wasn’t mine,
And a truth still hidden between the walls,
I’m still trying to speak.

Quiet your mind and you may find
peace in such stillness.
Your life feels like chaos when
the music drowns out any possibility of
silence inside.
How can you even think with lyrics of
mesmerizing dandelions
clanging through your consciousness?
From the left and right
distractions dissect your attention.
Why is it so hard
to turn off the music?
Silence is scary—
a frightening thing to befriend.
Some fear the dark, yet
you fear the quiet.