The whispering girl

I see myself in these dreams, you see, my face boiled over with fever blisters, my eyes narrow and searching. Thin strands of spider webs in my hair. I have no voice, but this lump in my throat, words jammed in there from the fall. The heat burrows under my arms, my legs, a rush of fury and sorrow. Will you let me speak, and if you do, will you listen? A shy woman walks by, whispering to no one, picking up the wrong receiver, educated to hear nothing. Do you cry, or is that all you see, this crumpled piece of tossed-away?

Crowds linger, stare, and move on, smirks on their face, and relief that it’s someone else. I rise, this glare of pain that has lost its shape. Window washers rinse their squeegees and gaze. Is this what a ghost looks like, or am I just a reflection from the Windex? The whispering girl doesn’t look up, she’s seen it all before. And she moves on.


Author: Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

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