Hissing
Do you hear it?
The hissing?
The closet?
…Aha.
Hmm. Nothing!
Where…
from where
is it coming?
For years...
Whenever a boss screamed,
and men at work schemed,
whenever I left a party
after playing the scene,
whenever I read the news
and someone asked:
Do you support the regime?
The hissing began.
So I ate.
I walked.
I sketched.
I made a phone call.
I daydreamed.
And it went away.
I lived like that
for years—
until I met you.
I felt seen.
I had been a painting,
hung, admired, highly esteemed.
But when you saw me,
you offered your hand.
I stepped out of the frame.
And I became real.
You held my face.
You kissed me ... well.
My body lit with a thousand stars
crossing through me,
leaving on my skin
a golden gleam.
Then,
one night,
you left.
You promised:
I won’t forget you.
So every night,
I wait
under the moonbeam.
The moon watches me, mournful,
as I cry
a silver stream
The hissing is back.
This time—
it doesn’t leave.
So here I am,
in my room
(it has a sea theme),
listening.
And finally,
I know.
It’s in a closet.
Not that closet.
You’ve awakened the beast.
It was there all along—
in my chest,
chained, angry,
and looking for a feast.
You…
you set it free.
Now it is untamed.
Hissing.
Hissing.
And the hunger
is
extreme.
