Bloom

I have never experienced true silence. My world is one of noise, and even now I can hear my heart beating, my breath rasping on the small blips in my body. I know that the end of sound would be the end of life.

There is a memory I hold, i makes me sick, and slicks my throat. When I remember it I am surprised that I am a healthy and happy human. But I am, at least that’s what my therapist says. The memory isn’t mine, but I have made it so, all the pictures, music videos, and angsty teen stories have melded in my mind with the event. “Fucking Perfect” cusses my computer, making me cry. Why did you slit your wrists love? I would ask her but I can’t, I’m the child. Instead my lips form different words: did you find silence? I can't ask that either. I cried. Was it my right to shed tears? What place do I hold in my mother’s world? A postcard on my birthday, a visit less often than the blue moon. I found myself thankful she wasn’t living here, that I didn’t have to find her. I wasn’t surprised. Now my friend talks of death, and I can’t say the right thing. I was on the wrong side of the slit, and too emotional. I can’t help anyone else, just condemn them. I know they will not come to me now if they need help. I cannot see silence, and it pains me to even admit that it's there.