Built on restraint, this piece moves in silence and static—read between the pulses.
The writing prompt for this piece came with a twist: three specific words—draping, vulnerable, and imperfections—were given, but with one rule… do not use them. Not once. Instead, their essence had to echo through the piece, shaping tone, emotion, and atmosphere without ever appearing.
In creating this poem, I leaned into the feeling of what those words evoke: the heaviness of something unshakable, the raw exposure of simply existing, and the quiet, relentless truth of being flawed. Each line attempts to hold the weight of those ideas—without ever naming them.
The energy behind this piece draws from the tension of existing between extremes, the effort of keeping still when the mind doesn’t, and the quiet violence of pretending everything is fine.
It’s not a confession, not a cry for help—just an honest moment, standing in the middle of the storm.
Static Aftershock
Some days,
I’m thunder with no warning—
all ignition,
no map.
Other days,
the air closes in,
tight as a throat
mid-panic.
I wear calm
like borrowed clothes,
wrong size,
wrong season.
I chase quiet
like it stole something from me.
They call it a swing.
I call it the floor disappearing
mid-step.
I’ve tried to hold steady—
ritual,
routine,
a warm body.
that didn’t stay.
But the truth is—
I live in the aftershock.
Too wired for rest.
Too split for escape.
Still,
I show up.
Still,
I burn.
(c) Eric Montgomery
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