THE COLOR OF SILENCE.

I grew up inside a bruise that never healed, And, silence was the only shade that fit the room. It bled through walls, soft and waiting, like the calm after a storm that knows Another one is coming. I learned its palette— the dull shine of pretence, the heavy dusk that settles on the tongue When you swallow your name too often. When he spoke, the air cracked open, and silence hid behind my teeth, shivering and trying not to spill its truth. Some nights, It coated the floor in trembling light, And faint color that burns, right before it disappears. Other nights, it pressed against my chest, dark and endless, like something that once breathed. Now, even in calm places, I still taste it— the fading tint of fear. I have worn it so long, that, It has stained my voice. And when people say "You speak softly" I smile, because they cannot see, The colours I survived to stay this quiet.