ice pick

i do not know how to write about silence

everyone around me talks too much
they tell me about their jobs, their lovers,
their patterns of addiction
the manifestations of their desires
and when they are done, when they leave me,
i go and bury their words at the edge of the
parking lot.

i know how to write about dead things
about lost things
about empty things
about things you hate      about me

it was the way i said i hated you and loved you
at the same time, my voice splitting and layering
that made you believe in all the noise
that made you turn to static

let the air hold you. let the waves of sound
crash into someone else. let the fragments of sound
knit themselves together in the conch of another ear.

i’ll never have to hear you again.

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