Rooms With Locked Mouths

Some houses
are loud.

Some houses
are quiet.

But the worst
are silent.

Not peaceful.
Not calm.

Just
empty.

Rooms
with locked mouths.

Walls
that never ask.

Doors
that always close.

Inside
people breathe.

But barely.
Soft.

So no one
hears.

She wakes
before sound.

No birds.
No prayers.

Just thoughts.
Loud ones.

She cooks.
They eat.

She smiles.
They leave.

She stares
at dishes.

Then floor.
Then nothing.

She once
sang.

Now
she forgets tunes.

She once
danced.

Now
her ankles ache.

But she never
shows it.

Because silence
became survival.

He walks
to work.

Worn bag.
Cracked phone.

Messages left
on read.

Nobody replies.
They see him.

But not
really.

He buys coffee.
Sips slowly.

Like it’s
a reward.

Because life
rarely gives one.

He returns
to his room.

Four walls.
One bulb.

The noise
inside louder

than anything
outside.

But no one
asks

“How are you
really?”

So he
doesn’t tell.

They laugh
online.

They glow
on screens.

He scrolls.
Feels small.

Everyone wins.
He waits.

“Maybe me?”
Still waiting.

These lives
aren’t broken.

They’re paused.
Muted.

Not because
they can’t speak.

But because
no one listens.

We visit.
We text.

But we
don’t feel.

And pain
has learned

to wear
makeup.

So next time
if someone’s too quiet…

Don’t say
they’re strong.

Say
“I’m here.”

And mean it.
Fully.

Because many
are drowning

in rooms
with locked mouths