Screams suffocated in pillows (Marcella Boccia)

Beneath the weight of dreams,I scream—a sound swallowed by the hollow night,a cry that never escapes my throat,its edges sharp like broken glass,but muffled, lost in the softness of a lie.In the silence of my room,where the walls are made of shadows,I am crushed by the weight of my own breath,each inhale a struggle,each exhale a surrender to the dark.The pillow beneath my headbecomes a tomb for the words I dare not say,its fabric soaked with the tearsI do not want to cry.I scream for the souls I never saved,for the love I could not give,for the promises I broke in my sleep.My voice shatters,but no one hears it—not the moon,nor the wind,nor the silence that cradles mein its indifferent arms.The scream is a secret,tucked away in the folds of my mind,where it festers,waiting for the moment to break free.But it remains trapped,suffocated by the comfort of false hope,and the pillow,oh, the pillow—it whispers back,telling me that silence is salvation.So I lie,the scream still lodged deep in my chest,a fire smothered by the weight of my own shame.And I breathe in,and out,as the night wraps itself around me,silent and heavy,a reminder that some screams are meant to die in the dark.