Silence Bleeds

There’s quiet in the house that clings like breath before a scream.
Air thick, moon caught in the window, shadows swollen at the seam.
You listen for the creak, for a whisper out of sight.
You know the rules—stay still, don’t look, hold tight.

But the silence is swollen, hungry as a wolf’s stare.
You feel it crawling, patient, cold fingers in your hair.
Every second is a dare, every blink a trap.
You tell yourself you’re safe, but you know better than that.

You hear nothing but the blood pulsing in your ears.
Try to hide from your shadow, but the shadow’s what you fear.
There’s red beneath your fingernails, red behind your eyes.
You pray for morning, but dawn only brings new lies.

A floorboard groans, a cold breath on your neck.
A shape in the hallway, a wet footprint you never check.
You can’t remember how you got this far, this late.
Only the taste of copper and the click of fate.

Stillness sits beside you, humming in your throat.
You feel the eyes inside the dark, the teeth behind the note.
You want to scream, but sound would only make it real.
You want to run, but the blood beneath you makes you kneel.

There’s red on your hands and red on the floor.
You thought you’d survive—
but there’s red on the door.

Silence bleeds—no hiding, no reprieve.
The house keeps its secrets, and none of us leave.
It stains every shadow, it marks every plea.
You’re part of the hush now.

Every gasp is counted, every heartbeat feeds.
You’ll drown in the quiet,
because silence bleeds.