Home > Poetry > when silence is a living thing

when silence is a living thing

This silence has a history,
it is our map for bad days, moments
that began in grief or fear,
an abstract wound of questions
rigorously denied, unanswered.

This is an old theme, a blueprint
marred by footprints,
a lie born of absence,
a thing blind with wanting.

For days, I say nothing.
I pace inside myself, powerless.
How do I exist
without sound, breathe without echo,
love beyond the lie
of each unsaid word?

The syllables build up inside me,
repeating themselves into oblivion, threatening
to burst as a scream, demanding
I pick up the phone
over and over,

again and again –

but the words are old, unused,
nothing beautiful or rare,
raw sentences dripping
with hunger, a need that eats itself,
forgetting polite,
forgetting to be neat, legibly,
a primal despair.

This poem – this conversation –
is a false start,
a letter ripped up and burned;
it is a reminder
of things I keep choosing,
the fear that lives within its own walls,
unforgiving; absence
can be broken with a whisper,
a low-blue flame
of words that write themselves
into existence, a reminder
of the loneliness in the lie,
the uncertainty of the monster
raging in the unsaid word.

Categories: Poetry
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