Voices

Slight voices

coming from the other room,

scurrying as mice,

stealing nutrients like air,

turning a silent stillness to

a waking violence;

biting my ears its a loop:

week after week

after the weak like me—

drown it out

with liters of water

filled to the ceiling;

killing the mice

squeaking inside of my head

hanging over hell.

Family photos framed with gold,

of which silence has its stranglehold:

irony dances with nuance

like living in a fantasy;

her mother in Alice in Wonderland

wouldn’t shudder

at the haunted picture

nailed to the wall