The intercom buzzes when no one calls,
at hours too thin to exist at all.
Just hiss at first, then something worse–
a voice too calm, too sweetly rehearsed.
He doesn’t ask for help or send a nurse,
just says my name like it’s a curse.
Then laughs like a wire pulled too tight,
and whispers things I told no one at night.
The button’s red, but never pressed,
yet his voice still cuts through my chest.
He says, “You lied today about the meds,”
then hums a song inside my head.
The smiling man in the intercom line,
knows my sins and feeds on mine.
He speaks in codes and distant clicks,
and calls me by names that never stick.
I once unplugged it at the wall,
but still he spoke–soft, and small.
He said, “You think I live in there?”
Then laughed, and breathed behind my chair.
I tried to record him, catch the sound,
but the tape just hissed and spiraled down.
And when I played it back that night,
my voice repeated, “You’re not right.”
He once recited my mother’s name,
then told me where she hid the shame.
And when I asked him who he was–
he said, “I’m the echo of what you caused.”
Now the intercom breathes when I think too loud,
and repeats my thoughts like a thundercloud.
I speak no more. I mouth, I mime–
but he still answers every time.