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Mary Beth W., 21 Aug '13

I don't quite know how to put your silence into words.

It's like grasping at the tiny molecules of dust
as they float like ghosts of words never said and things never done.
You would know those ghosts,
wouldn't you?
But you'd refuse to acknowledge them in the daylight hours,
the hours when it is acceptable to call a person or knock on their door.
It's the darker hours that are dangerous for you, yes?
The hours when you can only lie in bed
staring at the ceiling,
wondering when and where and how this had all gone wrong.

It's like when one is trying to count the twinkling of the stars,
to find some pattern, some logic in all that infinity,
and just as your eyes rests on one faintly glowing in the velvet-black
it disappears
and you never even got a chance to wonder how it got there,
or how the universe keeps on thriving,
even when you are softly sleeping or cold and dead in the ground,
the mechanic ticking of your heart now silenced,
the groaning and creaking of your hair as it grows out of your scalp the only thing there -
it doesn't know that you are dead.
At least, dead to me.

It's like poking yourself over and over with a pin,
being perpetually surprised when the blood drips out and over your skin,
your delicate skin, your skin that is the color of the moon,
your skin that has bought you so many privileges,
your skin that, were it any other, it would never be as fine.
Your skin so gossamer that you cannot even walk on your feet,
for then it might break and you'd bleed out and be like the rest of us,
become someone you already are but are too blind to see
and then you'd die a cold death
and then where would you be?
so you are forced to tip-toe around like some demented ballerina,
and ignore those with tougher skin
or skin that has been ripped of and shredded,
their blood diluted with their tears and sweat, mixing in with the dust on the roads

But you,
you just keep on dancing,
just keep on tip-toeing
just keep on ignoring.

Maybe you'll get through this life unnoticed.