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

prim bowties.

I am the sight of unanswered calls,

of voice mails reverberating

through eardrums,

of silence sprouting

again and again

until I have lost

myself

to the pain.

I am the sound of body breaking

under the weight

of its shame.