You Call It Silence

You call it silence.

But I hear the fluorescent light
humming somewhere overhead.
It holds one long electric note,
like a wire inside my head.

The fridge buzzes in the next room,
and the Roomba is too loud in its dock.
The clock just won't shut up
with its incessant tick tock, tick tock.

I hear the scrape of sleeve on skin,
the wet click before a person speaks,
the blood moving behind my ears,
and the whine the screen leaks.

Every sound arrives too loud.
Nothing will wait its turn.
The whole world presses against my face,
close enough to burn.

Static is every tiny noise
caught tightly in one net:
a thousand silver wings
still beating, never settled, not yet.

It is a radio between stations,
hissing low and dull.
Wire wool drawn slowly
through the centre of my skull.

I see your mouth moving,
but the words come apart.
Vowels drowning in electricity,
consonants flashing like a spark.

You ask why I do not answer,
why I cannot speak at all.
You ask why I cover my ears;
it's because my hands are the nearest walls.

I am not trying to ignore you
I am just trying to not disappear
inside everything
I can hear.

Even when the lights are dim
and the machines are turned off,
the static stays bubbling beneath my skin,
humming constantly, low and soft.

You tell me there is nothing there.
But nothing is loud in the air.