These Walls Can Speak

These Walls Can Speak

At first I could not breathe between these walls, there was no room for my lungs to expand, no air just insulation and dust. So tightly was I packed between the two by fours and the drywall that I could not even open my mouth to scream so I whispered my despair. So soft was my pleading that only those who understood the utter hopelessness of deliverance from those who are stronger came to offer the solace of their teeth and claws, mandibles and pincers.

My thoughts grew stronger with every tear at my flesh. When my eyes left their sockets carried away ever so delicately between the tiny white razor sharp teeth of my rodent deliverers I began to truly see. I saw deep into the heart of my killer. I was able to count the minutest rays on the tail end star on Cassiopeia.

My ears were harvested by an enterprising centipede which left me free to hear the steps of a flea on a bar of soap. Touch, taste and smell were lost completely but in their place was the capacity to focus like never before. I was thought and emotion. And they constantly warred within me till I became the stuff that night terrors are made of. And yet underneath it all I was able to dredge up a fleeting moment or two of sheer optimism.

This feeling had nothing to do with God. I have never been a believer, not even when those hands were around my neck did I hedge my bets and call out. I died in silence just like I lived. I am not however silent in my death. My bones crack like sapless branches behind the headboard of their bed. I articulate my condemnation in their ears as they sleep, their dogs howling in solidarity.

I make their most precious things disappear or lie broken where they will cut their feet. And I write on every wall, on every surface, on every inch of awareness that killing me has only anchored me deeper in their lives. That I am here behind these walls where they have placed me and I am waiting for them to join me.