There is this scream;
a voice that is loud,
but often incoherent,
yet powerful.
The walls of my mind echo
this scream
and pages are filled
with lousy reproductions.
For it is delayed
and smoothed out.
The raw shrillness
stays hidden within.

sometimes I want to scream,
to open my throat and let raw, audial emotion pour out of my mouth

in unlikely and inappropriate places:

I want to be louder than the grate of iron against iron on the metro,
than the sharp whine of subway against tracks
than the hum of electricity
and the noise that makes up this city
and the noise that makes up the world.
I want to be louder than the noises that reverberate from other people's lives,
and louder than bureaucracy,
and louder than the din of policies and senseless complaints.

but then I think about the summer lockdown,
the humidity of western Tennessee,
the chorus of cicadas in the forests,
devoid of human noise and interaction.

I think about the luna moth I found on my doorstep one morning,
Sheltered from sun, cicada, and wasp.
They stand for luck, you know, and all good fortune.

They don't have mouths.

I walk alone down an empty hall.
I hear the voices behind me.
Every step I take they become louder and louder;
I quicken my pace.
My footsteps echo around me
As my feet hit the floor.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
With every step, they grow louder.
With every step, the voices scream.
They scream until I can no longer hear the footsteps.
They scream telling me to stop.
I reach the door...
My hand rests on the rusted golden ****.
My breath catches in my throat,
I can feel as my hands become clammy, and
Sweats comes down my forehead in beads.
My eyes dart from side to side-
The voices still screaming.
"You can't leave"
"You won't go"
Voicing my doubts and insecurities.
They scream inside my head!
They yearn to tear me down;
To create this void of darkness that I am constantly trapped in.
Oh, that void,
A place of emptiness;
Full of darkness.
A place where the voices thrive-
Picking up on every single thing
And using it all against me.
A place that I refuse to go back to.
So, as my eyes focus on the rusted ****
My hand reaches out.
I stretch my fingers and clasp them around it.
Feeling the coldness of the metal shock my body.
I rotate my hand 90 degrees,
The **** creaks and groans as the door is opened.
Automatically I swing the door open
I hear the voices start to quiet.
I take one step,
Then two,
Then three.
I breathe in the fresh air;
My lungs fill up.
A cloud of smoke appears as I release the air trapped inside.
I start to walk,
Leaving my anxiety-ridden mind behind.

I want to scream,
Like no one's listening
But I need your hand to hold,
So why is it I choke?
When you ask me what is wrong
The words seem to escape me
And instead I sit with tears in my eyes.

I trust you with every fibre of my being
So why is it,
I'm so **** scared you'll leave my side?
When you ask me what is wrong
I don't want you to only see the broken
So I hide it all inside
But you stay and help it feel okay.