Blood in the Quiet
Silence isn’t quiet —
it’s the scream stuck in my throat,
the venom dripping from broken teeth,
the promise shattered on cracked floors.
Your silence is a fist
beating against my ribs,
each unanswered breath a knife twisting deeper,
a war waging beneath broken skin.
I claw at shadows
grasping ghosts that slip through bleeding fingers,
love drowned in the dark,
where silence is a battlefield
and nothing survives.
Copyright © Becoming trude from the ruins | Year Posted 2025
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