Dinner plates tremble like thunder and rain,
Forks keep time to a careful refrain.
We learn the weather by reading your eyes,
Hide in our napkins, folding our sighs.


“Don’t make waves, don’t breathe too loud,”
Quiet kids vanish in a crowd.

In this house of small voices, we talk with our feet,
Tiptoe around what we’re scared to repeat.
We call it love, but it sounds like alarms—
All of us shrinking to fit in your arms.
If love is a shelter, why does it burn?
I’m learning to name it, and choosing to turn.


Sorrys are currency, cheap and thin,
Peace treaties signed with a trembling grin.
You say it’s normal, “families fight,”
But shadows grow long when you turn off the light.

“Let it go, don’t start a scene,”
Truth gets washed in gasoline.

In this house of small voices, we talk with our feet,
Tiptoe around what we’re scared to repeat.
We call it love, but it sounds like alarms—
All of us shrinking to fit in your arms.
If love is a shelter, why does it burn?
I’m learning to name it, and choosing to turn.

I want a home where the floor doesn’t crack,
Where no one wears blame like a weight on their back.
Love shouldn’t ask you to disappear—
Open the window. Let oxygen in here.

No more ghosting my pulse, no more swallowing rain,
No more teaching my body to carry your pain.


This voice won’t stay smaller to soften your storm,
Love isn’t real if it demands a form.
I’m stepping outside where the daylight returns—
I’m naming the pattern, I’m choosing to learn.

House of small voices, I’m leaving the room—
Planting my words where they’re able to bloom.