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Oct 1
I don't remember when the noise began
maybe it was always there
a low hum inside the skull,
like a wire burning out.
You can live a whole life with it.
You can smile, nod, answer questions,
and no one ever notices the hum.
But it grows. It eats through words.

People stand near. They reach,
say they're here,
say they'll listen,
say all the things people say.
Their mouths move,
but their faces blur,
hands blur,
everything slides away.
Their kindness lands but doesn't stick.
Water on cold stone.
Sound with no echo.

There are nights
when the ceiling presses down,
closer, closer,
until it's no longer ceiling but earth.
And I don't know if I'm lying down
or being buried.
Breath is an act.
Breath is labor.
Silence is louder than sound.
The room hums.
I hum back.

Hope becomes a cruel currency.
You trade pieces of yourself to hold it,
but it gives nothing back.
And slowly
so slowly you don't notice
your hands stop reaching.
Your mouth stops explaining.
You stop looking for names to call
because the names don't answer
or they answer but you can't feel them anymore.

It's easier to look alive than to prove you're not.
So you laugh in the right places.
You nod. You walk.
The hum keeps chewing.
Inside you,
rooms go dark one by one,
doors shut,
and nobody sees it happen.

The words now come like splinters.
Not sentences, fragments.
Shards.
I drag them out one by one,
like nails from a coffin.
They shake in my hands.
They cut as I write.
It's not even thought anymore.
Just a noise.
A noise I'm still trying to make
because if I stop,
I'll disappear completely.

This isn't a confession.
It isn't a prayer.
It isn't even a message for anyone to find.
It's just the last static in the line,
the last hum before the wire burns out.
And even here,
in this broken writing,
I am trying to hold on.
Trying to stay visible.
Trying to keep my voice
from fading into silence.
Hanzou
Written by
Hanzou  M
(M)   
30
 
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