a hidden cricket chirps
in the dusty darkness the streetlights skim your eyes searching
for anything other than the blue quiet.
i tell you about the fog of it; the stuttering snowball
of confession clumping through my throat,
of me and my quivering adrenaline rattled shoulders, my
migraines, and trembling needs, and the roaring memories
that i so gently tucked into a bed of quiet dark, and when i kiss you,
we tiptoe past their door, smiling, silent, careful
not to wake them, pressed against the wall between us—
i promise i promise i will find my boundaries myself
and rub myself against those uncrossed lines like the safest cat.
and i assure you that the trauma will not be the third person in your room—
the interrupting ghost of it cowering unsoothed in the corner alone, no,
perhaps the goat's head buried in the bottoms of my boots, sure,
or the echo of a performance of my stuttering rage i gave
to my houseplants, alone, unfurling towards bare light,
or just the cricket you stepped on one night, cold,
unsung, unnoticed, and never once softly touched.
no, don't worry, i will not ask you for help, nor abidance,
not even love, and so you smile and exhale and nod, and i assure you
i don't mind rocking myself to sleep in the night.
m. wilder hopes you feel better. A youth librarian with bedhead whose words may be found in Glass Poetry, Rogue Agent, Surj, School Library Journal, and more, you can find m on Instagram, Neutral Spaces, or lying in a puddle of sun near you.
Instagram: @hereistheend
Neutral Spaces: https://neutralspaces.co/mwilder/