Whatever is silenced will clamor to be heard, though silently.
-Margret Atwood

No, the tears are not rife
with any particular emotion.
Slow and circumspect,
hating disappointment
as the only measure
that still trickles pain,
the only one
that finely drips through
the mesh of control
to mingle with my blood.

This fabulous inertia
that strikes my limbs
but won't even put pause on my brain
makes my eyes vibrant
but my actions dim.
Being this body
is hurting my soul
and floating
is causing more scrapes and bruises
than the Path ever would.

Musically, poetically I'll watch you
as I cling to the notes
and words
to save me from drawing you near.
The sting from my palm
still open on your face,
you will walk away.
I will be watching patiently
for the sight of your back -
breathing easily because I won, again.


Can you hear me clamoring, finally?