I haven't screamed at all.
Somewhere in my voice-box, my sounds got muffled.
I didn't scream at all
when my walls were trespassed.
The sounds lay muffled in pools of despair.
The cuts are still raw
They bleed daily.
There's little I can do with cuts that like being fresh.
I could try to scream now, to make up for that silence.
I could kick and scream it all into a distant memory.
The idea is appealing
The reality, not so forgiving.
I could scream until the pain subsided,
but these stitches would still unravel.
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