The night spreads, thick as velvet,

a dark weight pressing close,

and I lie in its arms,

swallowed by the silence—

no stars to guide, no moon to soften,

only the shadows, breathing beside me.

Beneath this hush, a scream coils,

silent, fierce, rising sharp,

a raw cry clawing its way up—

caught in my chest like jagged glass,

its edge scraping, ripping through

the tender walls of my heart.

The peace of night is thin, stretched,

like fragile skin over something wild.

It hums, yes—

but with the ache of an open wound,

a pulse that drags me deeper

into the hollow quiet.

I feel it, a dark presence here,

an echo filling every breath,

as if my pain is a heartbeat too,

beating its own steady rhythm,

pressed close in the shadows, woven tight.

I press my palms to my ribs,

trying to cage the storm within—

but it’s feral, relentless, hungry,

tearing in the quiet, breaking free,

and I wonder if peace

is just a mask the night wears,

fragile as breath, as touch.

So here I lie, raw and waiting,

wrapped in the arms of the dark,

with shadows to cradle my brokenness,

and the echo of a scream, silent and sharp,

buried in the hollow of my chest,

waiting for dawn to stitch me whole.