unspoken screaming.

did you see her?

(the wild gesticulations of a past-present rose,
a dumb show; she got lost in swirling
origami paper, scented pens and chalkboards
on which she jots down the electric words
in her sweet, wordless self)

you can't hear her

(oh but she likes strawberries,
like you and me and the girls in that class;
she likes to lick the bloodlike stains off
her cherry lips with her speechless tongue;
how she hates public speaking,
cutting speech and drama classes)

don't you wonder if she ever had a voice?

(and she idolises the little mermaid
with her pure nonexistent vocal chords
who once sang solo soprano;
maybe she sold her voice in a previous life,
talking to an unanswering skull
like a misguided Hamlet)

but i swear she called my name

(she wants to rant and rail and boom-erang,
just 'cause she doesn't means she can't?
all people make assumptions;
she knows when she squashes unlucky cockroaches
beneath the soles of her Reeboks,
no one hears their wails for help)

i'm not going to talk to her

(and she doesn't want to either,
vanishing with a poof in a shower
of stars and glitter and black flying fish feathers;
to a world where she wears a name tag
like those cashiers and waitresses
and no one needs to ask her name)

and she doesn't need to answer.

-kismet. 12th January 2005.
for dearest evelyn, baby!

Author's Note: happy birthday, evelyn. Have a great 14th year! Stay your eternal oxymoron, both hot and cool. (throws confetti around) as for the poem, interpret it how you like. It's freestyle.