thank you for the percussion

you hear whispers.

they murmur warnings in the dead of night,

      hiss ugly words from the shadows of doorways,

breathe astonishment to the empty air.

you wish they'd stop, and go on your way.

you hear voices.

louder, they plead you not to pass them by,

cajole you into looking over your shoulder, 

cackle at your sudden surprise.

you clap your hands over your ears, and walk faster.

you hear noise.

it starts with quiet, such a quiet as you have never (not) heard. 

it is silence in the pit of an empty belly in the darkest, blackest night, 

and there is no avoiding it.

then a low static crackles to life, a lifeless radio broadcast
and below the sound, just underneath
there are screams
        pleas to keep breathing
screeches through gritted teeth, of roaring rage
        fears voiced in a single earsplitting cry

and you stop walking, stop thinking, stop-
and you realize it's you
the source, your vocal cords
your mouth, wide open
tongue frantically working

and people are staring
horror, perplexity, amusement
plays across their faces
in a glittering parade

they press closer, the noise gets louder
you claw at your throat, clamp your fingers over your lips
they circle tighter still, hands reaching out

and just as the first touch of a finger grazes your skin

you fall
out of bed
sheets wrapped around your neck

the radio's on
so is the television, the stereo,
the laptop blaring news in the corner of your eye

you don't remember turning them on, or why
but you will certainly remember turning them off
and slipping back into bed
sweaty, shaken, teeth clenched

(and your throat still hoarse)