I’m told hearing is the vibration of tiny hairs
tiny fragile hairs swimming in yellow fluid
twitching and clenching to the beat of life's roar
like the wasted boxer with lifeless eyes
a handful of hits for the knock-out
and every fall is a high-pitched tone
the last shriek of a dying nerve
I remember the stomach-twisting boil
the first hair of innocence tearing away
the pounding of lonely adolescent hearts
two bodies ruined together, forever
waves crashing together, dissipating
writhing in the awful pain of relief
and did my innocence die shrieking,
pawned in the search for connection
sold into the slavery of guilt?
I'd like to think I held something back
that this high-pitched tone of a headache
means there is something left to die
and so I stand careful guard
not daring to inquire too closely
for fear I watch over a tomb.