what does anyone do with the silence they leave behind?
i keep searching for a place to let my sound fall, collapsing atop the floor
but there is no place to rest.

grunts keep passing into my ear,
shaking the most fragile of hairs with every breath.
i want to ask you to stop, but you cannot hear my pleading as it rings throughout my head.

locking myself away behind an iron, sturdy door.
i observe once again how it looks like it could be locked, unbreachable, but opens with a simple pull.
you could find me here, past this door that does exist someplace, but you will never notice it-
for it is truly silent here, and you are too loud, too caught up in your own pain and pushing.
while you make yourself bigger, i close the door shut.

i can hear you, behind this door,
but you are muted by the wrought iron.
it is not perfect, like you are not even though you try to be,
and like i am not, as i must remind myself,
but this breath of quiet is one that i drink readily.
it is a crude mimicry of rest, but one that i must take as i find it,
in this place between dissatisfaction and elation.