there is something to be said 
about lacking the ability to scream
when you spend your entire life
swallowing them
beating them back down the throat 
choked up, quiet gasp 
little child turned ghost 
too weak to become banshee 
eternally caught somewhere between asthma attack 
and hiccup 
my body gathers screams like shiny collectibles 
a thousand of them, fragile origami creatures 
clogging up my throat with paper cuts 
making small serrations within my veins
they use their fangs, vindicating teeth 
caged animals searching for salvation 
digging their claws into a body that could never give it 
i hold them in me because they have nowhere else to go
because even parasites need somebody to love them  
so i nurture the screams within a masochistic brain 
knowing that, like me,
they will never grow strong enough to leave 
and i always feel them, eventually, 
shiver along the pebblestone path of my tongue 
and die at the doorstep of my lips
they tumble back down the stairs of my esophagus, 
to bloat and fester and rot 
deep in the graveyard of my stomach;
mass of shrieking flesh, food for their kin
this twisted cycle of life repeats 
and there comes a point when a poem isn’t enough 
to reflect the feeling inside of me
the screams will keep beating their fists on the back of my teeth 
and the only thing i’m capable of is bleeding words from my gums 
unable to vocalize, gag reflex, puking prose
and i know poetry cannot nurse a scream 
and i know this is not a cure, only a heaving relief 
i know that the relief is just a temporary one,
but, but, but i cannot help to think that— 
a temporary relief is better than bearing this pain
on its own.