Scream

One day, when the itching-crawling was
Too much to bear, I stood at the bottom
Of my driveway, tilted back my head
And screamed up at the clear blue sky —
There was no thunder. I did not call
A rainstorm. The sky remained clear.
I screamed and screamed and screamed
Enough to jostle the puffy clouds, but
Nothing. My cry was insubstantial —
A ghost-call, complete with that burning
Which says, “You exist, you feel too much”
But also, “You are not here, not here at all.”
The sound didn’t echo, just escaped and
Dissipated without pomp or ceremony.
Again and again I screamed at the sky
Until I realized my screaming was not
And would never be enough.

The next day, I screamed into a pillow
And my sound suffocated in the stagnant
Air of my room, was caught in my snot
Was constrained by salty chains of tears.
No one heard. Not because they were
Missing, no, but because I buried my scream
In these folds of fabric, behind my door.
If screaming at the sky was maddening
This was torture — I could not breathe.
My chest heaved and my eyes were
Closed out of necessity but if they were
Open, I’d see dancing black spots.
My scream was enveloped and then gone.
Extinguished, and then discarded by the
Room’s inescapable, relentless darkness.
I screamed until my voice was also lost —
But this, too, was not enough.

I screamed at siblings, strangers, friends 
And then watched them turn their backs.
When I called out, they could not hear me
Because my vocal cords had given up or
Given out. Or maybe because they were
Laughing over me. It was a magic trick
I’d never meant to perform — come see!
The amazing invisible child, so loud that
She ceased to be heard at all, ever, listen!
I can’t even hear my own oafish footsteps
Over the static, buzzing, overwhelming.
And the scream returns, like spiders
Skittering underneath my skin, burrowing,
Devouring my sound, my voice, my life.
I scream silently, then at others when
I realize that silent screams will not satisfy
But I am never heard anyway.

I scream like a malicious haunting spirit
There is a phantom, a spectre, crying
In the gloomy, cobwebbed corners of the
Dwelling. She — it — is shunned. It moans
And groans and shrieks the night away.
Poor thing. No one will ever approach it
But for the few good souls who soon
Find themselves scared off by the howls —
Inarticulate, primal, which surely are
A sign of no spark, no intelligence, not
When they can offer no release. And
My lips fumble around words, unable to
Articulate the gaping tear in my life.
And severed from this plane, I have no
Hope of ever reaching its inhabitants.
I wail and scream into silence as
Unreality scrapes like pins and needles.

The ghost-child only ever wanted to be
Real.