Silence speaks to me in the corners of cabinets,
Under the seats of toilets,
in between the walls in the dead of night,
Claiming personalities in my own mind.
Sometimes they are honest and brave.
Other times, obscene,
Like an angel spreading her legs.
I bemoan foreboding to the queen,
But only whispers escape my lips.
Wrong way, I slowly mouth.
So I wait.
Floating is what I’m trying to say,
Given to the rock that’s hard like you.
I chose to give it to you,
And holes are my slip through.
While rocking is my only tool.
In the dirty dirt.