When The Noise In Me Matures Poem by Cat Singh

I think we become noisier as we grow older.
As babies, we scream out
like entire flocks of geese
trapped in one tiny body,
then we turn silent.

My mother always swallows hums
when she eats, always yelps to herself
when the shower is too cold, always groans
as she gets up from a chair, always whistles
with the rhythm of songs on the radio.
Her grunts going up the stairs of her new house
are a eulogy for her old joints. She always said
she had a bad knee from playing sports
in high school. I picture her playing volleyball,
silent and stifled as she skidded
across the ground,
young, and still holding everything in.

Now she yells at the pinch of a finger,
lets it all out like no one (maybe everyone)
is listening. These days, I am 21 years old:
still quiet and full of locked up sounds.
I am quiet in bedrooms
and behind my car's wheel.
I am quiet in meetings and in front of TV screens.
I am quiet even in pain.
But I am hopeful still that I will grow,
that my voice will slither up
through my throat someday
when I have lived too much life to care
who is listening.

I may moan when I eat someday
or talk to myself while doing dishes.
I may grumble under my breath
or screech
when I stub my toe.

There is noise in me,
and it will burst from my chest
when it gets too large and too loud
for my body to carry.