Well it's terribly quiet you know--
just a whine of electricity and
the hum of air-vents,
just a clatter of computer keys,
light under my finger tips,
just the rhythms of voices and
occasional laughter
cottoned by walls.

A microwave beeps it's finish.
A printer whirrs is arousal.
Beside the office phone and
a screen skirted by sticky notes,
I sit
hardly able to breathe

yet somehow able to speak,
compellingly, about PSEO,
about biology majors,
about appointments two weeks out.

My fingernails feel sour from
pulling through so many files.
The smell of ink and envelopes
only coddled my nausea.
I'll admit
that I stopped twice,
crouched in my glossy black heels,
placed my hands on the table ledge,
hung my head,
and breathed deep and helpless
until the fear-ache lessened.
Mostly though, I do my chores
before I fall apart.

Mutely my gut wrings itself--
relentlessly.
The phone rings, abrasively.
I answer sweetly.

I promise you, Noah, I swear to you,
on your scarred and perfect heart:
I never meant for it to be
anything like this.
I can't tell you
how I've been torturing myself.
I can't tell you how it's hurting me.
I can't tell you how silently
I chose to fall apart.