The Murmering Bones

I haven't a bone in my body that doesn't speak in whispers; they all grind and crack as if they are trying to speak to one another, like blind old men feeling each other's faces. My joints are landmines, I can see it now. A crack of knuckle and suddenly a thousand atomical secrets come pouring from the creases in my palm. What a spectacle, what a sight; a child exploding from the outside in. What a thrill, what a mess, to have secrets all over the floor at my feet, but for their electric spark to die out before they can ever reach the ground. A dead spark, a wet match, a short circuit. What's the use? I woiuld rather keep the static stored. I will cusp my hands together lightly, I will be careful not to move my spine to rapidly, or a mess of electric shock might come bursting out my neck. I will have to be gentle and fragile and tender, because these secrets my cells tell one another can burn holes into the back of someone's head, can strip me of my sense of common things, can leave just as quickly as it comes. I will be quiet, I will listen and I will catch the slight buzz that comes at every point of concentration, and I will not create a crack.

I will never crack my knuckles again.