My Quiet - poetry

[WickedCadrach]

My Quiet

It's the anxious palming of guitar strings,
The stillness of corrosion and atrophy,
The silence of macerated words kept inside, dissolving into glances,
Thin muscles squeezing ribs against lungs
Like my mother grabbing me when the brakes stuttered and slid
And I heard her cry 'God, save us!' in the voice— 
The voice Saint Peter must have used,
A voice desperate but believing,
Certainly more faithful than mine;
He saved her, after all.
But intercession follows confession, and so I confess, I confess
Until there's nothing inside but the quiet.

I don't cry out anymore.
I hold my breath. I keep my quiet 
Tight in my chest where it rides my blood to folded hands and still feet;
A bowl is most useful to others when she is empty.
My quiet is the quiet of waiting, a kneeling quiet, 
A hands on my knees, chin lifted, 
Mouth not quite making any human shape because 
I don't know if you want me to smile
Kind of quiet. 
Slave quiet. Needy quiet. Naked to the bone, 
Whispers like kindling twigs breaking underfoot
... and I stop, because you only listen when I'm quiet.

And after we're done, after I've let you in 
To turn the quiet loud, to fill me with your sounds,
And we're in reality again, towels discarded like autumn leaves,
Drinking coffee that tastes like the last pot of coffee,
I'm quiet still.
My chest crumpling in vacuous uncertainty,
I pretend to read my book, in case you want to talk.
And in that wordless moment, a moment that's really nothing more
Than the possibility of a moment, I imagine what you must think:
Disgust, disappointment, regret, hate. Hate. Hate engraved,
Etched like fingernails against the inside of a coffin lid.
You must hate me.

It's not speculation. It's a command. 
You *must* hate me,
So I can apologize, so I can make it right by being small,
So small that this quiet in me does not feel so much,
So that I can beg and bend and offer you straps to bind me. 
Hold them, please... Tighter. Harder. Don't let me think.
My quiet is natural with a hand on my neck.
My stillness makes sense if I am your toy,
My rag-doll limbs still and limp, my body 
Exactly where you left me, should you need me—if you ever needed me.
My quiet is expectation like the whiskey you keep over the fridge,
Or the way I hold my nights open for the nothing that we do.

And it's a lie. 
Because I'm not your hostage. 
You're mine. 
Hold my leash, hold my tongue,
And I don't own myself, 
I don't own my tears, or my night terrors, that day
I shut myself in our closet and wrapped your belt around my neck,
... my quiet, and why it stays... quiet.
My arms around you, my lips smear the blame across your neck.
I'm yours—devoted—quietly waiting every moment on your permission to live,

Because I can't give myself permission to die.