THE QUIET THEY MADE

I was born in a house that never fucking slept.

Every breath was another cold war.

They smiled like knives,

and called it family.

Built my world in the dark,

’cause the light never felt like mine.

Every dinner was dead air,

every word a landmine.

I used to think love had a sound —

some warm, familiar hum.

Now I only hear the echoes

of everything I’ve become. They taught me peace by tearing it apart.

Calm through clenched teeth and scars.

When every hug’s a fucking weapon,

you stop asking who you are.

Now I walk through faces like a ghost.

Touch means nothing, hearts stay closed.

No blood left for grace or faith —

I became the quiet they made.

The mirror stares, I stare back —

nothing human’s looking out.

My voice sounds rehearsed as hell,

every word just wears me down.

I buried that kid behind my ribs,

somewhere deep and out of reach.

He still cries in my fucking dreams,

but I choke him when he speaks.

NO WARMTH!

NO NAME!

JUST ROT IN MY VEINS!

NO WARMTH!

NO NAME!

JUST ROT IN MY VEINS!

You made me numb —

now you beg for love?!

You made me numb —

now you beg for love?!

FUCK your love.

I’ve had enough.

The boy I was still waits in that house,

counting ghosts in every sound.

If I could reach him, I’d only say —

don’t grow up this way.

Don’t grow up this way.

NO WARMTH!

NO NAME!

JUST ROT IN MY VEINS!

NO WARMTH!

NO NAME!

JUST ROT IN MY VEINS!