Rooms With No Windows

Bare walls hum with footsteps no one owns,

a low tremor under the boards where he hides his tone.

You shrink to the edges, the dog curls tight by your knees,

both of you learning how silence can bruise like disease.

A cracked frame tilts, catching your breath in the glass—

a lesson in walking lightly, hoping storms will pass.

You count the locks like prayers,

you feel the dark prepare.

Rooms with no windows, only echoes of the names he bends,

shadows teaching you to measure hours by how the fury ends.

But still you hold the dog close as the floorboards quake,

rewriting fear into breath you refuse to let him take.

He speaks in thunder you never asked to hear,

a storm mapped across your spine every passing year.

The dog trembles first, sensing storms before they break,

a tiny heartbeat trapped in the shape of his mistake.

Your voice a matchstick scraping the dark,

fighting the habit of shrinking to a spark.

You brace against the swell,

you whisper, “not this hell.”

Rooms with no windows, where even the light learns to hide,

where you trace escape routes in the trembling of his stride.

Still you guard the dog from the weight of his rage,

marking the mercy you keep though he redraws every cage.

In the hush between his steps you feel a door appear,

a thin line of promise humming faint but clear.

You lift the dog, your pulse finally breaking through—

a quiet vow that this room won’t be the end of you.

Rooms with no windows, but tonight you carve a way out,

a rupture in the quiet where you bury every doubt.

He won’t own the sky you rebuild from shattered tones—

you and the dog rising past the weight of broken bones.

No windows here, but dawn floods in anyway,

teaching your voices how to stay.