u/turquoiseturttle

Tell me –
What alibi does gravity need
To pull a body down?
Why must I prove the ocean
Before I say I’ll drown?

No thunder needs a jurist’s seal
To split the sovereign sky;
No winter begs permission
Before the gardens die.

The river never hurries,
Yet kingdoms learn its name.
It doesn’t conquer all at once.
It wears the throne away.

The moon has never touched the sea,
Yet still it bends the tide.
Distance has no mercy
When the force lives deep inside.

Some tempests wear a quiet face,
A practiced, vacant stare.
They sit inside the ribcage
Like a church with no one there.

The rafters drip with old despair,
The floorboards softened out,
Where every prayer grows moldy
Before it leaves the mouth.

The steeple points to empty blue,
Still begging for replies.
No bell announces ruin
When the saints refuse to rise.

Beneath the surface, pressure gathered,
Fault lines practicing their hymn.
No seismograph took measure
But the earth still broke within.

There are aquifers of anguish
Under every laughing field,
Deep catacombs of water
That no surface will reveal.

Some wounds arrive without a bruise,
Some storms refuse a sound.
A house may stand immaculate
And still be burning down.

Not every wound announces blood,
Not every grave has stone.
Some coffins learn to walk upright
And call their silence home.

The garden smiles in sunlight,
Still rotting at the root.
By the time the branches blacken,
No spring can bargain fruit.

A bridge gives out in seconds,
But not because it chose.
It carried every silent strain
No traveler ever knows.

You only count the moment
The branches meet the ground.
You never hear the thousand cracks
That never made a sound.

A star can spend its centuries
Collapsing out of view.
Still, distant eyes call nothing wrong
Until the darkness blooms.

Its absence stains the heavens
Before the world sees proof.
Yet still they argue with the dark
And doubt the wound’s own truth.

Must every wound present a knife,
Must ash confess a flame?
Why search the room for evidence
Before you speak its name?

Must sorrow leave a signature
In salt upon the floor?
Must ruin wear regalia
Before it’s called a war?

Who asks the blood for witnesses
Before it’s called a stain?
Who cross-examines quicksand
For swallowing the terrain?

Who asks the dark for evidence
Before it earns abyss?
Who argues with the shadows
For daring to exist?

And still the world demands a ledger,
Some inventory of ache,
As though a soul must file its ruin
Before it’s allowed to break.

Who calls the pain a rumor still
Until it stains the sleeve,
As if a wound must bloom in red
To make the hurt believed.

So spare the courtroom questions,
The autopsy of pain.
Not every famine bares its teeth.
Some silently waste away.

No one blames the shoreline
For yielding to the sea.
They never ask the missing land
To prove its injury.

See how the estuary
Unthreads the sovereign shore.
Not conquest, but attrition,
Until the coast is shore no more.

The mountain owes no motive
When stones begin to slide.
Some graves are built in daylight
With the mourner still inside.

So tell me –
Why is silence evidence
That nothing hurt at all,
When even stars collapse unseen
Long before we see them fall?

What indictment must be carved
Across a sunken sky
Before the world believes a soul
Can vanish while alive?

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The counselor called home once.
The house became a court.
A mother’s voice like sirens,
a father blocking the door.

No tenderness. No compassion.
Just suspicion, shame, and heat.
Strip down. Prove the accusation false.
Or show us where you bleed.

And when no wound was visible,
the verdict turned to dust.
No further investigation.
Their absence proof enough.

Little did they know,
if they had checked the week before,
they would have found the evidence,
her skin no longer wore. 

They measured her by motion,
by every task she finished through,
as if survival on the surface
made the suffering untrue. 

Yet she had letters waiting, hidden,
written one foot in the grave,
not plans, just paper caskets
for the things she couldn’t say. 

He found them, tore them, flushed them,
and never said a word,
then called his silence mercy,
demanding her pain stay buried.

He read the hidden scripture
of the dark where she wrote from,
the raw and ruined gospel
of a daughter come undone. 

He called it teenage drama,
storm clouds passing through,
as if every child carves lightning
when the thunder booms.

A scar appeared in summer,
thick as truth across the thigh. 
He looked at it like vandalism
instead of asking why. 

Never let me see that.
Never bring that here.
As if depression becomes obedient
when ordered to disappear.

Years later, he asked what happened
to the girl they used to know,
but refused to name the winter
that had settled in her bones. 

She learned the house had rules:
be bright, be good, be still.
If dying, do it quietly.
If bleeding, hide it well.

So when they ask why lying
has become the only door,
tell them denial is the lesson
they were teaching long before. 

They clung to every trophy,
every good grade, game, and grin,
as if a full calendar
meant no rot beneath the skin. 

Every flushed confession,
every scar they dressed in shame,
kept bleeding through the silence.
Now all I feel is pain.

And if they cannot bear that,
if the truth feels too severe,
let them sit with what they buried. 
Let them feel despair. 

 

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All these words left unsaid
Running circles in my head

I let the time slip away
Why didn’t I call? Why did I delay?

I’d sell my soul to turn back time
Before remorse became my shrine

Regret will haunt me all my days
Until I join you in the grave

Tell me –
What alibi does gravity need
To pull a body down?
Why must I prove the ocean
Before I say I’ll drown?

No thunder needs a jurist’s seal
To split the sovereign sky;
No winter begs permission
Before the gardens die.

The river never hurries,
Yet kingdoms learn its name.
It doesn’t conquer all at once.
It wears the throne away.

The moon has never touched the sea,
Yet still it bends the tide.
Distance has no mercy
When the force lives deep inside.

Some tempests wear a quiet face,
A practiced, vacant stare.
They sit inside the ribcage
Like a church with no one there.

The rafters drip with old despair,
The floorboards softened out,
Where every prayer grows moldy
Before it leaves the mouth.

The steeple points to empty blue,
Still begging for replies.
No bell announces ruin
When the saints refuse to rise.

Beneath the surface, pressure gathered,
Fault lines practicing their hymn.
No seismograph took measure
But the earth still broke within.

Some sorrows are subterranean,
Old rivers under clay.
They do not ask permission
Before they wear the earth away.

There are aquifers of anguish
Under every laughing field,
Deep catacombs of water
That no surface will reveal.

Some wounds arrive without a bruise,
Some storms refuse a sound.
A house may stand immaculate
And still be burning down.

A locked door is still a doorway
To a room concealing war;
Not every buried kingdom
Leaves its bones above the floor.

Not every wound announces blood,
Not every grave has stone.
Some coffins learn to walk upright
And call their silence home.

The garden smiles in sunlight,
Still rotting at the root.
By the time the branches blacken,
No spring can bargain fruit.

A bridge gives out in seconds,
But not because it chose.
It carried every silent strain
No traveler ever knows.

You only count the moment
The branches meet the ground.
You never hear the thousand cracks
That never made a sound.

A star can spend its centuries
Collapsing out of view.
Still, distant eyes call nothing wrong
Until the darkness blooms.

Its absence stains the heavens
Before the world sees proof.
Yet still they argue with the dark
And doubt the wound’s own truth.

Must every wound present a knife,
Must ash confess a flame?
Why search the room for evidence
Before you speak its name?

Must sorrow leave a signature
In salt upon the floor?
Must ruin wear regalia
Before it’s called a war?

Who asks the blood for witnesses
Before it’s called a stain?
Who cross-examines quicksand
For swallowing the terrain?

Who asks the dark for evidence
Before it earns abyss?
Who argues with the shadows
For daring to exist?

And still the world demands a ledger,
Some inventory of ache,
As though a soul must file its ruin
Before it’s allowed to break.

Who calls the pain a rumor still
Until it stains the sleeve,
As if a wound must bloom in red
To make the hurt believed.

So spare the courtroom questions,
The autopsy of pain.
Not every famine bares its teeth.
Some starve without display.

No one blames the shoreline
For yielding to the sea.
They only mourn the houses
Where families used to be.

See how the estuary
Unthreads the sovereign shore.
Not conquest, but attrition,
Until the coast is shore no more.

The mountain owes no motive
When stones begin to slide.
Some graves are built in daylight
With the mourner still inside.

So tell me –
Why is silence evidence
That nothing hurt at all,
When even stars collapse unseen
Long before we see them fall?

What indictment must be carved
Across a sunken sky
Before the world believes a soul
Can vanish while alive?

All these words left unsaid
Running circles in my head

I let the time slip away
Why didn’t I call? Why did I delay?

Regret will haunt me all my days
Until I join you in the grave