Scratched the surface,
of the voices,
wordless torture and painless punches.
Scratching screeches,
silent screams.
Silenced violence,
the scratch grew.
Is it blood?
Is this still you?
Bruised and burning,
and nursing depression.
First it's the screaming,
the drums on my ears,
the lesser I feel,
the less I can hear.
Just a small scratch,
it won't kill.
Yet the voices inside?
They certainly
will--
All feedback is welcome