Piss-Poor Poetry Presents: “Whispers”

[the photo is unrelated to the poem, I just like it! photo by: me]

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I stood outside in the night air to clear my head.
I thought I heard whispers from the other side of the room.
I live alone.

I was in the kitchen washing dishes when I heard the whispers
again.
They were coming from the cupboard.

I bought a cat to keep me company.
I call her Lottie.
Lottie won’t sleep with me in my bedroom.

One night I heard the whispers while I read in bed.
Lottie hissed at the ceiling and scampered off my lap.
I looked at the ceiling and saw nothing.
I didn’t even hear the whispers.

I don’t have friends over.
I did once, but they are too afraid of the whispers.
They told me they would never come back.

My parents keep telling me to move.
I had to give them Lottie because she was getting sick.
They tell me I’m looking pale.

It’s been eight weeks since I’ve seen anyone.
I don’t answer the phone when it rings.
I don’t answer the door when there’s a knock.
I haven’t been to work.

But I do hear the whispers.

—————————————

NEWS CLIPPING:

LOCAL WOMAN FOUND IN APARTMENT, SIGNS OF FOUL PLAY

‘they cleaned out her apartment, her parents.
in boxes scattered across the living space, they
found heaps of religious sacrilege shoved into
towels, old shirts and newspapers.

She stopped answering our calls when we
told her something was wrong with this place,
her mother said.

A friend wrapped the last of the silverware and placed it
into a cardboard box filled with other kitchenware.

We told her the same thing, he said.
(He was the girl’s best friend.)
We had a big blowout, all of us friends
against her.

And then I found this, he said, and stood. He
pulled a folded paper from his back pocket and
handed it to the girl’s father.

HUSBAND MURDERS WIFE, THREE CHILDREN WITH POISON

Here? Here? Here?

—————————————

The local coroner found traces of mercury in her blood.
The random bruises and cuts were attributed to
depression—her parents said their daughter was not depressed.
A head wound indicated she had fallen and hit her head.
But where did the mercury come in? her parents asked.
What made her fall?

The detectives found an opened pill bottle in the bathroom
sink—Vicodin from a surgery eight months ago.
She overdosed.

But the mercrury? her parents asked.

There was a suicide note.
Her mother said it wasn’t her handwriting.
Her father said it was masculine.

An investigation is underway.
The suicide note did not match her usual handwritten notes.
Where did the mercury come in?
The Vicodin bottle was spilled, but the coroner said she had ingested
only one pill.
How did she hit her head?

The suicide note was short.

i don’t know why i’m here.
i’m sorry i was never good enough.

please forgive me. i can’t bear the
whispers anymore. they won’t stop talking.

sorry,
Patsy

23 Sep This entry was published on September 23, 2014 at 3:27 am. It’s filed under Piss-Poor Poetry and tagged creative writing, evil, fiction, ghosts, haunting, horror, Illinois, literature, photograph, poetry, series, story. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.