I do not cry, I do not scream I sleep inside a dried-up dream The days don’t bite, the nights don’t mend I wait for what will never end The mirror holds no new decay But something less is there each day I’m not falling. I’m not free. I am the pause between the leaves Stillness sick, and silence fed Not alive, not truly dead I did not break—I just stayed And slowly turned a softer shade The grief is dull, the grief is kind It hums and grows behind my mind No storm, no flood, no flame to bear Just mildew breath and heavy air No one sees a wound so small A quiet mold along the wall I am not lost. I am not found. I am the rot that waits underground Stillness sick, and silence fed Not alive, not truly dead I did not break—I just stayed And grief became the bed I made Every day the same, like wet cloth in the rain Every hour hangs— not a scream, just a stain Stillness sick, and silence fed Not alive, not truly dead No worse, no better, just still and sore And every day… it steals one more I don’t remember the color I was Before the dust Before the hush Before the hush Before—
