The scream is silent, yet deafening.
It is pointed like a star,
Yet it emits no light.
It sticks to the throat
Like thick treacle.
Choking me.
The need to release it
Weighs heavy.
Pushing me into the earth.
How I long to be like the wolf.
Howling at the moon.
To be rid of this noise within me.
That beats at my lungs.
Black as night, cold as snow.
Yet still it lives.
Deep in my stomach.
Feeding from the scraps I throw to it.
Like a pot bellied pig.

© Victoria Tucker 2014


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