The Quiet Bruise

Beneath the smile, the silence grows,

A garden where no sunlight shows.

A whispered name, a shattered plate,

The hour hand ticks, a breath too late.

The words don’t cut — they bruise instead,

They echo loud inside the head.

“You’re nothing,” “This is all your fault,”

Each syllable a hidden assault.

Not all pain wears a crimson mark,

Some bloom in shadows, deep and dark.

A glance that chills, a step too near,

Control disguised as love and fear.

The lock clicks twice. The walls know well

The stories no one dares to tell.

The sofa hears, the mirror sees

A soul that begs to be released.

The world outside says, “She looks fine,”

But bruises hide beneath the spine.

They don’t see how the laughter strains,

How peace must tiptoe around chains.

He says he loves — then takes away,

Her self, her strength, day after day.

A storm that smiles, a house of glass,

Where even time forgets to pass.

But embered deep within the ash,

A flicker starts — the faintest flash.

A voice inside begins to swell:

“This isn’t love. This feels like hell.”

One day she packs, not just her things,

But dreams and strength and broken wings.

She leaves the ghosts, the scripted lies,

She walks beneath forgiving skies.

And though the road is steep and slow,

With healing steps, she starts to grow.

No longer silenced, shamed, or small —

She learns to rise, to stand, to call.

So if you hear the quiet bruise,

The muffled sobs, the silent cues —

Believe the hurt your eyes can't trace,

And offer hope, and warmth, and grace.