There is a reason I say nothing,

why I walk on raised toes,

pull up on the door handle to hide the whisper of the carpet,

lean but never leave my room, listening

listening to the rain

listening to the final wave of the storm,

as if silence is shelter

but down there it pours.

I am trying to hear their words

but the static in my stomach

as all the nerves come to ends, signals send,

my head is hot, blood too loud

to make out any sounds but I know the shape their faces will have fallen into,

so I stand down and retreat off toes and back, close the door

still feeling them pour but no longer listening, hear the bursting again

in the evening,

addicting, the outer ring of conflict,

I know why wars were raged by old men in office buildings before we had TVs,

can’t hear, can’t see, but the feeling,

sense without senses,

the amniotic tranquillity of understanding perfectly,

I’m indoors during a thunderstorm,

in awe of the tension release, listening but I can’t hear them,

I think they call it chrysalism.


Words : Lucy Harbron

Photo : Elizabeth Corrall