She used to scream so loud the plaster cracked,
curled beneath the frame with her knuckles black.
I’d hear her every night around half past three,
clawing at the dark like it owed her a key.
They said she wasn’t real, said I made her up,
said the pills would quiet her, said to drink the cup.
But I felt her breathing underneath my spine,
and her screams were louder every single time.
The screaming girl under the bed isn’t me anymore,
she’s quieter now, but she’s closer to the door.
She doesn’t howl, she doesn’t shake–
she just watches with a smile I can’t mistake.
I stopped fighting her around the second year,
started humming back the songs she’d whisper near.
We made a deal in silence, sealed in dark–
she keeps my nightmares, I keep her spark.
Now the nurses say I’m better, say I’m calm,
but they don’t see the handprint on my palm.
They don’t hear the lullaby she sings at four,
the screaming girl isn’t screaming anymore.
So if you check beneath the bed tonight,
and find it empty in the fading light–
don’t feel relieved, don’t close the door,
because the screaming girl isn’t down there anymore.
She’s standing right behind you now,
wearing my face with a quiet vow.