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Hearing by Amie Norman Walker

Since landing on the bedroom floor I’m certain you won’t scream any more. I’m opening and closing holes in my ear to check if that buzzing sound is really there. A ringing from the background. It is there, though now that it’s been noticed, it’s fading. This noise yelled as if for my attention, yet now plainly hums. What does it take to go unnoticed? How do you maintain mundanity? Learn to be consistent, so as not to draw attention. Blend into regular habits.

Your blood is patterned like a rose. See how prominently flowers display their sex. Show me an ugly flower. They have no sound. Shushed, silent but the wind. A bird. A bee. All the dark swaying of the trees. Overwhelming mechanical noise.

I’m not distracted by one now, dare I lie. I’m tempted to draw out vibrations in patterns explaining through frequencies what the quiver of my lip means. If I turn my head to the left, if I turn my head to the right, the vertical humming changes volume. So, see? I’m plugging only my right or only my left in attempts to zero in on decency.

Explaining habits is useful, relevant, and real. Soliciting a truth, or practicing a standstill, daring communication boards can extract submission or better, magnetism. I’m definitely clear, certain by the pitch that your last hum went beyond silence. There is vanity, fore signaled, a presence, an unspoken desire, to reach out and find no end.

Hovering over your empty shell, I’m leaning in looking for the other side of hell. I’m usually content with looking in the mirror to find what conversation is found there. You lose the standards of another’s will. Sometimes a devouring pull of lust and pity; a fecund clench of tiny muscles and your innate desire to be had. Sometimes insomnia reversed, your effete gaze, sleepy every second. A perfect example of how to internalize exhaustion in order to keep suite with expectation.

I see you laying there, a devil-grinned child, a brown eyed, blond haired whisper of sin. What a crooked gaze. What a halfcocked smile. I wondered what it would mean to leave the institution of impressionability. How is it okay to run away? I wonder persistently about where I’ve come from but not where I am going. Behold now, you as perpetual child, with all the fear in the world, finding validity bites harder than one would have wished for.

What duality played up my sudden formation? My father. My mother. Many others. Plain me. There is zero frequency in explaining pedigree. Ill registered reason is seeking out psychology and I’ve no time for that. I want to tune every piece of me out now. I want to hear nothing but what the natural world is talking about. Silence suggestions and silence the masses until their bending over backwards just to keep somebody kissing their asses.

Here we’re both quiet in our heads, sinking into our night actions. There may be an answer if the world shuts down, if the minutes slow in their ticking sound. I wish you’d come with me into your shadow, into the reticent darkness where my fright now sucks on the whispers of your breathless might. Slow down the pace as my thoughts escape out my fingertips on your closed lips. I sigh with each rumbling of another sound in the distance, so muffled it’s certain we are much further than alone, surpassing dimensions as a quiet nothing until we become smaller than the first human thought, shrinking further down into the truth of what happened in the end.

There were empty fragments and pieces in time. I remember my hand on your throat and feeling sublime. What sound do you hear when you’re turned upside down? What footsteps echo away from you or to you? I turn my head as if to say did you hear that too? Yes, you. No…

The footstep girl is asleep in my head. My emptiness is next to her in her bed, microns of tiny girl vibrations pulsing in the backdrop of my sanity.