The Silence Between Bombs
a child’s voice lost in the noise of war
I learned to count
not with numbers—
but with the seconds
between explosions.
One… two…
wait—
Hold your breath.
Hope the ceiling doesn’t fall
this time.
Mama used to sing lullabies.
Now she hums
to drown out sirens.
She holds me close,
but I can still hear
her heartbeat racing
like it’s trying to outrun
what’s coming next.
The walls don’t shake anymore.
We do.
And that silence
before the next blast—
It’s the loudest thing
I’ve ever known.
I miss cartoons.
I miss juice boxes.
I miss sleep.
Real sleep—
the kind where you dream
about stars, not rubble.
I once drew a house
with crayons—
bright blue sky,
green grass,
a door that didn’t scream
when it opened.
But that house is gone now.
Or maybe
it never really existed.
We live in shadows.
Not because we want to hide—
but because light invites
the wrong kind of attention.
And laughter?
That’s a luxury.
It’s something we traded
for survival.
Sometimes,
I wonder if the world
knows we’re still here—
Still breathing.
Still breaking.
Still waiting
for a silence
that means peace—
not death.
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