Life is Quiet

Life is quiet.

A pin drops a mile away.

The wind is thunderous in my head.

Yet, life is quiet.

The sound of a chattering voice lulling me into comfort has been absent, and when it comes calling, I decline. I desire it yet I do not, and Nothing calls to me to spite my unhealthy need for it. My stomach is filled with it despite the endless slop I call sustenance that I pile into it. My tongue guides me to a better state of mind for a split second before the ambrosia is gone. Food only lasts a moment.

The buzzing begins. The “you’re nothings” and “no one likes yous” begin to circle around me, and my mind becomes a dark cloud filled with electric storms. I have been taught these truths and rarely have I been able to convince the gray matter in my skull that they are lies.

The clock ticks.

I lock the door tight several times and ignore your calling. I know you’ll only bring selfish turmoil and your un-lonely life along with you, and my heart cannot bear to be filled with your happiness, only to remain empty because its vaccine does not work on me. It tells me in that moment that I am the Nothing I fear, and my self is like a ghost drifting among walls in wanting to escape purgatory, yet no one sees. No one hears. I am but an afterthought of a whimsy to be entertained, yet dismissed because I am not believed in despite my existence.

Numbness is kind and warm — cozy and fuzzy all the same. The bitter taste on my tongue of its delivery pushes down my throat and promises a blanket to cover me in cozy warmth. It is all I can trust with the specters in my soul, as they are there when I call and do not leave me until I am safe.

Trust is a fickle thing I have been taught to regard with side glances. Words become harsh and vitriolic over years, and familiar faces I once greeted with excitement become unrecognizable, their tongues sharp as the knives that grace my skin. Their truths hold the blade as a guide while whispering sweet nothings in my ear, and as I bleed onto the floor they frame me with their weapon, painting me as the perpetrator when the act is done. They whisper and laugh about the instability they orchestrated.

Life became quiet.

A pin dropped a mile away.

The wind became a cacophony in my head.

Yet, life is quiet.

©2021 Shane Blackheart

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