Silence is a language I have come to know,
within me but never without,
as the constant chattering of eager voices seek
with an attention to reaction,
a reaction to attention, fake and clear.
Full of emptiness,
only the hollow echo of a thought,
never heard and always in vain,
resides inside, bouncing–
high then low until it stops,
And then it dies.
Until all you are left with is nothing.
How nice it would be if you could crawl under your bed,
construct a world from its shadows,
watch it materialize from the darkness,
and to have an excuse for why no one can see you,
or hear you, or find you.
Because the absence of these acts dictates your worth.
In that world under your bed, there are beings that give you comfort
and you’re protected from those who are real,
from the vibration and screams of the bed that is your home—
and you don’t see it collapse, break into pieces
as the whole you are a part of and a stranger finish.
You’ve given in too long,
drained your self-respect,
and though your mind wants someone to join you,
the heart says no…
because you wouldn’t be able to take it.
Your world would come crashing down—
the secrets under the bed made clear—
invaded and violated by those who offer you their hand.
I left my tears on your shoulder,
drenching your coat–
your hand on my back,
and mine on yours.
And you didn’t notice.
Didn’t ask, didn’t know.
And yet after days felt like night,
and nights, like day,
I pulled back,
away from you–I needed to.
And I climbed to the cradle of my dreams
with a fear of knowing you
wouldn’t come, wouldn’t follow,
wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t know.
And when I woke up, you were gone,
and I was a prostitute once more,
having left my tears on your shoulder,
drenching your coat,
and wanting them back.
*song I was listening to while writing this: U2’s “With or Without You”
**not to be taken literally…you’d be missing out on a lot if you did