Two nights ago
I mistook noise for courage,
and shadows for safety.
A glass too full,
a message too far,
a boundary crossed like it didn’t matter.
Now the house is quiet
but my mind isn’t.
Every whisper feels like my name.
Every silence feels like judgment.
I built small lies
like paper walls in rain,
thinking they would hold.
They didn’t.
Somewhere in a village
anger is breathing.
Somewhere a marriage is trembling.
And here I am —
counting heartbeats
like they might confess for me.
I wish I could rewind
to before the screen lit up,
before the words turned sharp,
before shame learned my address.
Guilt is a fever.
Fear is a long hallway.
Regret is the echo that won’t leave.
If time is merciful,
let it be quiet.
Let it carry this away
like dust after a storm.
And let me be wiser
than I was
that night.
