The Silence That Bleeds

by Adena M’lynn

There’s a silence that doesn’t sit still.

It leaks.

It seeps under the door,

trickles down the spine,

stains the floorboards where no one will ever look.

This silence is not peace—

it’s a tourniquet pulled too tight,

a scream swallowed so deep

it grows roots in the ribcage.

It bleeds without color,

without sound,

but you can taste it if you breathe too hard—

that copper tang of words never spoken,

of memories pressed between teeth

until the jaw aches.

People think bleeding means red.

They forget about the kind

that drains you in whispers,

that turns your bones into hollow reeds,

that plays the same note over and over

don’t tell, don’t tell, don’t tell.

The silence that bleeds

doesn’t ask for bandages—

it asks for a witness,

for someone to step inside the quiet

and name it.

Until then,

it will keep seeping,

a wound the body has memorized,

a shadow that keeps its own heartbeat.