The Scream

It’s a wonder that none of them can hear me screaming:

Help me, help me, let me out, let me out-out-out-out!

Perhaps it’s because the scream is only in my head;

And yet, it booms.

It bounces around my mind, collecting energy and anger,

Rolling desperation into itself like thunder;

And it glows like the sun,

So bright that it must surely come streaming out of my pores,

Oozing, glaring, blinding;

Seeking out the freedom that prickles along its edges,

Beckoning like a silk-gloved finger,

Running its silk fingertip along taunt, taunted, teased skin.

But nobody looks. Nobody stares in amazement.

Nobody covers their ears to ward off that unbearable sound.

And I paper a smile over my mouth,

I paint my face, I braid my hair,

I toss a velvet-tipped braid across my shoulder as I stride through the doors,

To meet the “morning” chorus - head-on.

“How are you doing?”

“Yeah, not so bad.”

“Good weekend?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“All ready to get stuck into the week?”

-Let me out-out-out-out-out!-

“All good.”

I slip quietly into my chair,

I sit quietly behind my desk as the coffee beside me gets cold.

And the scream waits patiently inside me,

Biding its time.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work