You handed me a world,

and it began to hum.

An untitled song set up camp

behind my eyes.

It did not teach me to breathe,

it counted the seconds for me.

I rewound the tape, slowly,

thinking reason would appear in the hiss.

If I find the start, I told myself,

the middle will settle.

Fix it, will I?

Take it to a shop?

Replace the parts?

Or pass it on and call that wisdom?

I could record over it,

give the track a cleaner name,

sand the edges till it shines.

But do I want new,

or do I want quiet?

I don’t need it, I know.

So I ask you politely at first,

this song in my head,

won’t you stop singing?

It doesn’t.

It grows.

I offer bargains, ruins, the softest parts of me.

The volume learns my house.

And then the floor forgets my footsteps.

The hallway keeps its air.

Only the chorus moves,

and it is not mine.