I've been condemned to a fate worse than death

Never talking to you again

Silence sits between us like an old coin.
Rusted, nearly unrecognizable.

Flip it, and you’d get the same answer on both sides:

                                            do you mind?
                                             not at this time.

We let it linger.
Like a dead thing, it begins to decompose.

We are both too proud, so we leave it.

Allow ourselves to become nose blind to the rot
riffing between us,

I would reach out if I didn’t fear
I’d be met back with my worst nightmare:

                                            a greater distance,
                                            a louder silence.

For wasn’t it tragedy that first birthed the quiet?
An innocent apple stuffing an ignorant mouth.

If I knew the sweet syruped fruit would end us,
could I have resisted the first bite?

                                            I hide in my notes app, 
                                            so you never see
                                            three little dots
                                            typing indefinitely.

Silence Mimics Death, 2025.

by Claudia Jean. Original written in ballpoint pen. Substack collection.

Born from a morning free write, this piece posits silence as a form of death. Whether we bury it ourselves or leave it out to rot, the empty left behind echoes in parallel. What lives between two people who refuse to acknowledge one another again? Does a silent death even the score?

Poetic Breakdown

We missed a day of escapril yesterday, which I’d be more bummed about, but we’ve been better about how we harbor shame lately. Anyway, if you’re nosey, here’s some fun facts about this poem:

★ My father stopped speaking to his mother when I became barely an adult. We were banned from seeing her, but eventually, I’d sneak over secretly to spend time with her. Eventually, again, I stopped, too. I’ve always wondered if there were words that could have mended things.

★ Two of the Stellas in our System are nonverbal, so when we split and they end up fronting, we can’t speak. It causes an incredible inconvenience to anyone I live with, but otherwise goes easily unnoticed.

★ I grew up in a silent home, only the sound of movies and stories playing behind a door that was always locked. I crave consistent conversation, the bite of shared stimulation, but I also recoil at it. Somewhere in this sentiment brews a poem about disorganized attachment style ruining my life.

That’s all folks!

If you want to support me, please consider getting Pike a treat or buying my book! If you’re here for the vibes, comment your experience with silence or share this poem with a friend (something about misery loving company belongs here).

If you’re really invested, you can help pick the next poem with the poll below! We’ve got several waiting in the drafts, but end up getting snubbed for something new. Which would you want to read?