The night isn't quiet -
it only pretends to be.
Behind the hum of nothing,
there's a whisper that sounds like me.
I breathe in smoke,
and it fills my lungs like old memories.
It tastes like childhood fears,
and the dust beneath my bed.
They say monsters live down there -
but they never told me
what to do when the monster wakes up wearing your own face.
The walls are paper thin,
yet somehow they echo my thoughts louder than any scream I've ever made.
Flame once told me,
"Even the dark has a heartbeat."
And I think she's right -
because I can hear it now,
thudding through the cracks in my chest, beating for something I can't name.
Maybe it's hope.
Maybe it's guilt.
Maybe it's just me,
too afraid to sleep because the silence always starts talking first.
And when it does…
I listen.