Quiet

Who am I.

What have I become,

My walls are high,

Marred with bruises, 

A canvas of a pain that told a story

No one wants to read.

Every heart hides many wounds, 

Holding its pain quietly— 

How I hide my feelings to myself,

Cling to the verge of naming them

Then folding the words back inside. 

Unspoken doubt,

Drowned in silence, 

Besotted by darkness, 

Not as an end, but

As the quiet where my thoughts finally fit.

Darkness doesn't always mean loneliness or grief—

It's the space where we feel safe,

It doesn't shout,

It lingers.