Echo in a Shattered Room

The room held its breath; I heard only skin,
The raw, flat sound of his fist breaking in.
No poetry lived in the corners that night—
Only my mother, curled small, losing fight.

Each strike was a sentence, no need for a word,
Each gasp was a truth no child should have heard.
The air didn’t shift; it was solid and still,
Pinned down like her body, bent to his will.

Her face wasn’t hers—it was smeared with his rage,
Her hands outstretched, begging him to change.
My legs wouldn’t move; they were planted, like stone,
While he built his power on her broken tone.

A chair fell, splintered; the sound split my chest,
Its echo would stay, though the wood found its rest.
The floor soaked her sobs, but they left no stain,
The mark on my mind, where I carry her pain.

He left her there, crumpled like yesterday’s shirt,
Her breath shallow waves beneath oceans of hurt.
And I stood, still frozen, my fists tight with blame,
A child in a story without a name.