Cicada

That whine is the sound of waste, rot, the frantic, grinding inability to attend to anything but sere thwarting of yourself, a dry corrosion which some say they know, but you and I— (my jaw clenched as you turn a page, you with a heart like drywall, I who would lace my arms with razors, then press them slowly to your lips, the metal taste mixing with flesh, and through gritted teeth I making the sound of you, you, you do not know, meaning only me, me) we know best.