At first, it’s soft–a sigh in the air,
a pressure in corners that shouldn’t be there.
The lights buzz different, the echoes bend,
and silence starts to ask how it ends.
I try to speak, but my mouth won’t try,
my thoughts just hum like a lullaby.
And something behind the stillness grows–
a hush that hums in undertows.
The ticking stops, but time moves on,
and every breath feels slightly wrong.
The bed creaks once, then not again,
like it forgot what weight has been.
When the quiet starts to scream, it doesn’t shout,
it seeps in slow, from the inside out.
No teeth, no claws, just endless space–
and a voice that sounds like my own face.
The walls don’t breathe, but they still stare,
the floorboards listen, the mirror cares.
I’ve been alone for days, I think–
but even time forgets to blink.
The windows paint me in shades of pale,
and memory curls like an old toenail.
I hum to fill the air with sound–
but it just makes the silence loud.
And when it leaves, it doesn’t speak–
just lets the walls resume their squeak.
But something stays that wasn’t there–
when the quiet screamed, it left me bare.