Rising from the bruises

It's silent but ever so deadly and haunts you in the night, a reflection of a screen on my glasses glaring and demanding words trying to turn pain into pretty, and anger into acceptance. And memories of a distant period of time, I cry tears. My pen sobs and wails my paper is hushed. My voice slightly fractured and strained, my heart empty and hollow as tears fall on my pillow every drop absorbs, I know it's keeping scores.