He used to scream until the walls would bend,
until the pipes shook loose at either end.
Every hallway echoed his voice like fire,
burning through meds, through straps, through wire.
Every nurse knew his name by sound,
every shift braced for the fury unbound.
He didn’t speak–he howled through teeth,
like something caged, like something beneath.
But one day he went still and stared,
no rage, no twitch, no sign he cared.
No meds were changed, no pulse went flat–
he just stopped, and that was that.
He’s the man who traded screams for silence,
not with peace, but with defiance.
Something snapped–he didn’t break–
he just decided not to take.
Now he sits too calm, too cold,
and the silence settles like it’s old.
The chair he’s in hasn’t moved in days,
but the dust won’t touch where his shadow stays.
His eyes still track, but he doesn’t blink,
like he’s watching something we can’t think.
They clean his room but won’t stay long,
say it feels like the echo’s wrong.
Even the walls seem afraid to breathe,
like they know he’s not planning to leave.
His roommate snapped a week ago,
sat in the corner and whispered “No.”
They pulled him out–never said why,
but I heard him sob, “He took the sky.”
No one’s filled that bed since then,
they locked the door and lost the pen.
But I walk past and hold my breath,
because silence hums like second death.