Thin Walls

The house breathes heavy.
Shadows louder than footsteps.
A slammed door echoes like thunder,
but we pretend it’s just the wind again.

Dinner gets cold while silence sits warm.
Mama stirs her coffee like nothing’s wrong.
I count the seconds between his words
and the breaking of something else.

The TV stays on,
so we don’t hear what’s real.
School asks me to write about home,
but what do I say?
That love shouldn’t sound like this?
The hallway light flickers,
but I don’t flinch anymore.
I’ve learned to read footsteps
like a second language.
Heavy ones mean stay still.
Light ones mean it’s safe… for now.

Mama hums in the kitchen,
a lullaby for her own nerves.
I wonder if she hears herself.
I wonder if she remembers the girl she used to be
before silence became a survival skill.

I fold my fear into the laundry,
tuck it in with the socks and prayers.
Pretend I don’t hear the bruises
hiding under long sleeves.