I hate it.
The fear.
The scream.
I scream.
It’s paralyzing.
It’s black.
It’s empty.
Into the hole.
There is no end.
I’m falling in.
Help me!
But it’s so quiet.
I can’t hear myself.
My scream.
I touch it.
It’s ice cold.
I’m taken aback.
I’m still falling.
I’m still screaming.
My voice is thunderous.
It becomes a storm.
A downpour.
There’s screaming.
The music is loud!
It’s so loud!
It’s fast paced.
It’s Scream-O.
There’s a mosh pit.
Let me out!
But I’m home.
This cave.
I’m here.
This scream.
I belong.
My scream.
It is a monster.
My life.
I am the monster.
About the Creator
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More stories from Amber Sanfilippo and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Longest Language Journey Back
When you have a godawful experience for years (perhaps French lessons) and need to write about it as part of the healing process and already you feel parts of your cognitive machinery trying to “clean it up” (guess it’s French lessons) for public viewing by default since it’s likely to make some toes curl up (sorry, but definitively French lessons.)
By The Dani Writer5 days ago in Confessions
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