in the soundtrack of my story,
there exists a lone percussionist...
and he plays to fit
the demands of passing moments.

•••

to the calm he plays steady.
in uncertainty he hastens.
he matches the ticks of seconds
when all is quiet,
and he thunders
to crescendoes and climaxes.

•••

in the symphony of my life
there exists a lone percussionist...
and he resides unseen in my chest.

It begins with a whisper.
One thought,
one voice,
one blow upon the dam
to a restless river.

Silence.

This dark duet
of doubt
of uncertainty;
two thoughts to feed
two voices to fetter
two fiends to fuel
an unruly fire,
stronger.
louder,
bigger yet.

Silence.

No, it crescendoes!
Voices rising,
rising,
rising,
like mephitic vapors—
I inhale.
I choke.
I scream.
But no one hears me.
No one hears what's inside my head.

Silence.

Please, be quiet
lest I ruin me,
you,
and all that I love;
draw a line in the sand,
sift out these voices of right
and wrong
of good
and bad
of truth
and lies
because these voices lie
oh yes, they do.
And if I know me—
every crevice
every crack
every word written in my heart
by my God, O my God, who made
every crevice
every crack
every word written in my heart—
how can they know me too?

Silence.

You wicked voices!
Yes, I know what you do to
stir fear
distrust
anxiety
until I have no choice
but to listen to the voices.

Silence.

No more.
No more voices,
or restless rivers,
or unruly fires,
or mephitic vapors.
Just—

Silence.

Blissful silence.
I can breathe
and close my eyes
to the black symphonies of
silence.

Yet, in the absence
in the void
a single note echoes
indiscernible in the buzz
but this is silence
and in the silence
things become louder
until I crave the noise again.

Music sings out, sobbing in the silence

of a darkened room.

It rises and falls, waves of calm and turmoil,

shared in bursts;

crescendoes of chaos and gentle melodies,

like bridges between tears.


This is where heart-ache resides;

patient and deadly, it waits.

It lurks in crowded corners, along with

all the other sins you make room for.

It makes the music you wish others

could hear, soft murmurs repeating

long into the night.


This is where everything resides.

The dark portions are home to all

your creatures, and all the music

they make;

worn strings and sticky keys.

Jealousy and its drumbeats

paired with dishonest notes and

the jagged shadows of your temptations

and spite.


The room is loud around you, but no one

on the other side of the door can hear

you cry it’s too loud.

They hear a rustle of leaves in a barren night.

Nothing more.


I confess.

I confess I still love you.

I confess I still desire another, and another;

I confess to all these temptations, passions left

sour in my mouth.

I confess to dreaming of you hurt.

I confess to rejecting your body once before,

a one night stand left on pause for days.


I confess to inflicting your words, just like I confess

to feeling bruised and wounded.

I confess to tears, when I see you embrace another.

I confess to tears in the long, cold night; because

I only feel empty at the thought of your name.

I confess to wishing I’d screamed at you, howled

in agony before your eyes as you slipped between my fingers.

I confess to hoping you would admit your scandalous lies,

and confess to knowing you never would be good enough to.


I confess to whispering your name above me,

and being glad I don’t have to bear a response.

I confess to painting your memories in words,

and loving how they float away,

as slippery and fine as silk.

I confess all these things, in your name.