Yes indeed.
He has eyes like a melted Kit Kat
And the kind of smile that queries a closer look
Whisper secrets into his Montblanc fountain pen
So he can transcribe them
Fold them into an origami crane
And blow them out the window

But I can’t whisper how nearly and dearly I hope to die
Pass away in my sleep, or tucked in the grace of a warm shower
I can’t whisper anything at all
I try to speak, but the verb of my vocal chords crash like waves onto a mound of dust and dirt in the shape of a rock inside my throat

It’s size of Long Island
Edges sharp enough to fracture tissue you can blow your nose into
It sits still and asks to be noticed

“She hasn’t said anything since she got here”
“Mutism and nonverbal effects are common in episodes like these”


I would say.
I don’t want to be here, but have nowhere else to go.
I would use to payphone to call the first boy who ever rejected me and gloat

I don’t need you anymore!
I have the hot psychiatrist at Pomeroy 8.

And he will wrap a warm blanket around me as I shiver through group therapy
And ask me to share something with the group
But I won’t
I don’t have to
I can just listen to other people’s stories of pain and suffering
How their illness hemorrhaged hope
And I just sway side to side
As the quartz inside my mouth oscillates back in forth to the motion of the saliva under my tongue.