is actually, ironically, the year of quiet.
very little gets done,
it is mostly still, you in the corner –
a crumpled thing.
a broken clock nobody thinks to fix.
dishes in the sink.
left-overs hiding in the darkest parts
of the fridge. the recesses that everyone
seems to forget.
the year of depression – I mean, quiet,
manic keeps trying to pick the lock
when no one is looking.
isn’t very successful though.
eventually gives up,
manic does not have patience
the way depression – I mean, quiet
the quiet closes up the windows with plywood
and hums, “baby, it’s safer this way.”
and you listen, this quiet is so demanding,
how it breathes behind you,
presses a lone finger against your windpipe,
reminds you it exists
without even having to say
a fucking thing.