Masked in a red cape
A little boy, a reckless game
Broken glass everywhere
A blackened eye, you’re not my son

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silence compounding upon silence
sleep is a river

ceiling fan spinning, spinning

i wept like never before
i wept and will never be the same

my heart spinning, spinning

will you save her
what is my life worth

silence compounding upon silence, silence

Moist slices of lunch meat, she listens as her bare feet prattle across the linoleum. Pitter pat. Pitter pat. The elongated and quite slender second hand of the oversized clock above her bed moves in sync, timing out her rhythm. She admires its tenacity. Thankful for its reliability. Tick tock. Tick tock. Left right. Left right. The hum of the air conditioning and the rumbling of the building’s generators outside her window do little to muddle her concentration. 432. 433. 434. 435. A rat in a cage tracing and retracing her steps. An infinitely small loop of Maslow’s bloated first draft. [read more]

Shhh. Do you hear it?
There is suffering all around.
Shhh. Do you hear it?
There is joy beneath.

Eyes open.
Body erect.
Nervous hands twitching at my hip.

Shhh. Listen. The silence is suffocating.