Peace and quiet isn’t something I’ve had in a while.

There are people, traffic, school, family, friends.

There are emails, and texts, and calls.

There is life.

But at night,

At night I am alone.

The world is quiet.

At night there is no need to do anything besides have peace.

Yet still, I know no peace.

Because I hear crying.

I hear sobbing.

I hear the telltale sounds of a child dying.

I thought she was gone.

I thought the person that I was, that I want to be, died in a well.

But I still hear her.

I hear her cry and I hear her scream.

But no one else hears it.

No one else hears the desperation of a child in my voice, in my thoughts, in my dreams.

But it’s there, and it comes in the form of pounding headaches, anger, resentment, pain.

It comes as jokes and laughter, and I am the only one who hears screaming come with the laughter.

So, at night, instead of sleeping, and dreaming of the next day, I hear a little girl scream.

She has a name.

It is mine.

I am her.

She is me.

It is me who is screaming.

I am the one that lies awake at night, trying desperately to feel something other than pain.

She is the one that pretends to laugh.

And so I know no peace.

But, when I do fall asleep, when I don’t dream of a broken world.

I see white rose petals floating in a clear pool.

I see peace.

And I reach out to touch it.

But it is dyed red, by the blood on my hands.

By my own anger.

By my own fear.

By my own weakness.

The brave knows no peace.

Neither do the weak.

Because in a world of people, everyone hears screaming.

Everyone hears regret.

But we all feel alone.

In a world where you see everyone, you are not seen.

And all you can do is watch as white turns to red.