Silence Was Insane

I have
bisected
nascent guilt under my wrists
and pink raw, nerve endings.
Each delicate,
and absconding,
from peace.

So great have these
pains been to my coward life,
that I have closed the lid over
your eyes,
and closed the lid over dustbins,
made out of all my speech,
and yours.
Dust collecting over your smile,
such a beautiful one.
And a catharsis, elusive of a future or a present.

Bit by bit,
my fingernails
are declining into their anemic shells,
and my breath is stalking whisper trees,
inward, inbound;
to the asylum of my own heartbeat.
While taxi cabs
brighter yellow than my teeth ever could be,
and lighter black than my despair,
coal-like with a veneer of cheap tears.
Like everything else about me,
roam fat and bold.
Louldly, like proud lovers
sheltered from shame and hidden hand-holding.
A little unlike me
because

I never held hands,
Only a mouth in mine.
Only to give it up too soon.

Adieu, dearest materialist.
Silence was insane