I am the sound of bones breaking,
of stitches standing in ceremony across my skin,
of asphalt buried deep into flesh.
I am the taste of lilacs wilting,
curling back into the earth,
of lavender seeds sprouting only silence,
never breaking soil.
I am nebulous rain drops
spattering on the velvet ridges
of newspapers and magazines
that never held my name
in its columns.
I am the scent of shredded paper,
of unfruitful interviews,
of crumpled suits and
I am the sight of unanswered calls,
of voice mails reverberating
of silence sprouting
again and again
until I have lost
to the pain.
I am the sound of body breaking
under the weight
of its shame.