small talk
they chew each other’s names
like gristle,
spit stories into the air
that stink before they land.
every word a small knife
looking for a back.
gossip crawls on the floor,
licking old blood,
hungry for new.
they feed it faces,
they feed it mistakes,
they feed it anything that once tried
to live clean.
the noise
is blunt-force trauma—
no filter from the brain to the mouth,
just rot rolling downhill
into sound.
ears packed with cotton,
hearing nothing,
feeling everything.
the skull rings
like a cheap bell in a slaughterhouse.
they don’t speak—
they discharge.
sentences like misfires,
wild bullets ricocheting off
whoever’s closest.
you stand there
taking shrapnel politely,
nodding like a good citizen of hell,
until the pressure behind your eyes
starts to beg for a violent silence.
later, alone,
the room finally stops shouting.
your hands shake.
your drink tastes like survival.
and you understand:
the quiet isn’t peace—
it’s just the sound
of the knives being put away
for the night.
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