White Noise

The quiet;

My childhood fear.

Fifteen minute commercials lit up my television at 3 am,

People speaking constantly

Even while I slept. 

The whir of a fan,

The song of a bird on a summer afternoon,

The drip of a faucet,

They meant solitude.

I didn’t get over my fear.

One doesn’t wake up,

Comforted by still air

After hating it all their life. 

It changed with me,

My scope of silence narrowed. 

The whir of a fan, 

The song of a bird on a summer afternoon, 

The drip of a faucet,

I can find peace with. 

I fear being lonely.

Letting quiet mean solitude,

Is losing all safety in my own presence

That I’ve worked so hard to achieve. 

The quiet;

The fear I left in childhood.