The quiet noise
Deafening in its magnitude
Of “this is it.”
She couldn’t seem to fathom
Of this new chapter: silence.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“I am lost in this place. I want to scream, I want to shout, I want to hit the walls with my bare hands.”
Trauma in brown paper bag lunches as a child, in the facial expressions that menaced, in the hurtful kicks and punches her brother flung on her in his unchecked rages.
She was the punch bag. Her mom hit her with her baggage. Her brother kicked her with his feet or fists. Her father didn’t bother. Her stepmom tried to change her.
No one asked her, “do you want to be a punching bag?”
“No, no I don’t.”
Imagine all these traumas like the loud noises of car horns and sirens, morning birds raging day and night, drunken conversations loud in alleyways as high heels go CLICK-CLACk echoing all over the city. Imagine this city of noise, her trauma.
Then, now, imagine silence.
Abrupt, white desert, bright sun, dark night, crickets only silence.
She can only feel her body as it aches in every way from chronic illness. She can only feel her heart and all of its heavy sorrows, such sorrow. She has freedom, she has independence. But she feels so fucking alone, she misses their insanity. She could pick up the phone and continue it. She could, she could!
But should she?
It’s a new chapter, she will set the land speed record for women but she will not be driving a car and she won’t crash and burn into a fatal accident. She will be leaving behind the insanity for something else, by foot. She hopes it is better, maybe she will learn along the way.