Many nights I shivered,
Rustling my paper skin.
Sounds of squeaking creeps, murmured crawling,
Creaking the wood behind my door.
My hand swats the darkness,
But I can't feel the slap
In this area constructed for rats,
Where the thickness of their poison
Chokes them.

Foreshadowing danger,
An avalanching absence

Of mind.

A dissolving…of thought.

And I…hear it now…
Drifting…The
Creaking
Of retaliation,
The
Squeaking
From neglect,
The whispering becoming hoarse,
Drumming against my skin.
My nerves are tight strings,
Tight enough for acrobats to stroll—stretch—across them,
Rupturing my…skin.

The outside layer chills, freezing all shivers, all strays
And leaves a shrill voice that blooms and decays,
Wilting—
Clutching onto—nothing, it seems,
Craving my rescue.

I ignore it, for it is dark. Bottomless. Open. A new wave of free
That has crashed right into to me, and besides,
I cannot see
For I can pretend
Not to hear,
Not to feel,
Not to care.