I don’t want to talk

about the tiny whisper-screams

that grow and build

until they strangle out my voice.

 

I stutter-speak, my tongue tripping

from word to the next in some sort of desperate

rush.

 

There’s a building pressure in my throat,

all those emotional sentiments

begging for release-

I can’t.

 

My pen scrapes against the paper,

raw and bitter, words spilling in ink

that is black as sin.

 

The pressure eases,

the whisper-screams settle to a quiet

background noise-

momentarily sated.

 

These words

give rise

to hope.