I have a scream sitting heavy at the top of my throat, threatening to run riot upon the world. It tickles my tonsils whenever I speak, biding its time for when I least expect it. Whenever I write, I can feel that scream edging closer to my fingers: it’s gasping for air – for any way out of its prison – but the closer it gets, the harder I suppress it.
I feel like there is a tornado swirling in my chest, its sole agenda being to destroy everything it comes into contact with. It finds a way to my brain. Pauses there. No, it thinks, this place is already ravaged. It backs away and fallsfallsfalls back down again.
I am empty, but for a thick layer of dust that used to be called “bones” and “muscle” and “cells” and “tissue.” My brain is still intact but it’s too full to be of use to anybody. I feel like Francesca and James from my previous post: the rubble has fallen on top of me and all I can do is lay still; wait for some poor bugger to realise I cannot break free and nor can my tornado or my scream and said poor bugger will free me, my scream and my tornado and my insides will become proper insides once more and most importantly of all
– most importantly of all –
I will be able to write again and I will be able to cringe slightly less than now when I read over what I have written.