There’s a child
in the corner of a heart grown cold,
feet dangling over memories
too deep to reach the floor.

It doesn’t cry —
just listens
to the echo of voices
that never meant to stay.

It wears silence
like an old sweater,
too tight around the ribs,
stitched by years
that asked too much, too soon.

The human walks,
talks, works —
but something flickers
in the space between breaths.

Sometimes,
the child rattles the walls
of the quiet room inside,
and the human forgets —
why their hands are shaking?

They meet
in moments of collapse —
when the world feels too loud,
and the mirror
shows too many faces
for one name.