WHITE NOISE

By Jessica Ann

I’ve forgotten how voices sound,

movements of letters unfurled like a fetus.

I breathe quietly; if you were here you’d tell me to

hold it. You’re so helplessly cruel; I can’t help

but grasp you tight

like a telephone chord, twirling you

between my fingers

to hear what you’re saying in that

staticky voice of yours in case you

change your mind.

You never say much.

I twist, turning as Orpheus.

You’re there, I think.

My fingers curl, the carpet grimaces as

I skin it.

I pull it up by its throat,

and open my bloodied hands, a dowry

for your goodbyes.

But you’re laughing.

You mean to mock me as I lie,

digging elbows into earthy meat,

tender and uncured. You curl the hair

from my face.

There’s a drag on the moon and I can feel it,

a stop-motion model slipping in your hands.

Do you weep,

do you crave it;

do you wait until I’m

untethered.

My head falls, a gateway reality ballooning around

my neck, a space helmet.

My face is in the white noise, fat-lipped

and round in the wrong places.

That’s how you must see me.

You’re there

between the pliant static and I forget

how this film

ends.

Rest my palms against my face,

cradling, like my webbed

blood is not smeared over my cheeks.

I ask to be freed, but you no longer

follow.

I give in,

finally, lift myself up,

and you smile as you watch me die,

Again and

Again.

#DarkPoetsClub