The Quiet Shape of Violence

Violence does not always scream—

sometimes, it hums behind the teeth,

a lullaby in broken keys,

the rattle of breath before a blow.

It blooms in hands once soft,

hardens hearts like frost-kissed stone.

It wears the face of reason,

wraps itself in flags and vows,

comes clean-shaven to the altar,

or crawls drunk into a child's room.

It speaks in splinters—

shattered glass in morning light,

bruises dressed in silence,

eyes that flinch before the shadow forms.

Some violence is loud—

a warhead's kiss,

a gun's exhale.

Some is quiet—

a withheld word,

a door slammed nightly

against the will to stay.

But it always echoes.

It teaches daughters to speak softly,

teaches sons to eat their pain

like dry bread under the table.

It carves idols nto bullets

and prayers into apologies

never meant to be heard.

Yet still, it begs the question—

not why we hurt,

but how we learned to watch

and call it survival.