Noise

Poets and Storytellers United asked us to write about a type of noise, literal or metaphorical.

Noise

We talked,
exchanged polite lines,
but beneath the words
a noise was hiding,

like the hum of a washing machine
where shirts turn
behind a glass window.

They can't escape.
They tumble and shake,
you can only sense
the colours they carry:

the black of anger,
the grey of disappointment,
the green of envy,
thoughts left unspoken,
swept under the carpet.

The noise of small red irritations
crawling like worms
through the wet insides of us.

I tied a ribbon around it
and let life be messy
let it be noisy.

Then I stepped outside,
closed the door behind me,
and breathed the crisp air.

Sky vapour still rested
on the flowers.

In the silence,
I softened.