Static in the Pulse

The bass is a blunt tool hitting the drywall.

I am standing by the speaker because the noise

leaves no room for the things I need to say.

Someone laughs behind me, a wet, jagged sound.

I watch the back of a neck, the fine hairs

standing up in the draft of the open door.

My red cup is sweating, a slow leak

forming a ring on the scuffed wood floor.

Nobody sees the water sinking into the grain,

just like nobody sees the way I’m holding my breath

to keep the panic from becoming a scream.