SCREECH: A Horror Poetry Collection

Voice

My disease is undefined,

they say.

The definition of my person,

a symptom.

I wish I was more, but I'm not.

"M is for mute,"

She sings.

Her voice tinny metal,

grating against my brain.

She stormed in while I was sleeping,

and highjacked my vocal cords.

No land legs in this exchange.

(I didn't need them)

My only trade, this bargain whiteboard.

(I don't want it)

It lays in my lap,

plastered with peeling stickers:

blooming flowers,

happy cacti.

They wilt in this hospital room.

(Me too)

My drive lies in the past,

(Like my parents)

it's tucked in their Chrysler's trunk.

I tried to provide,

scribing an honest answer,

but I guess it just didn't suffice.

So, I stare at the bareness,

enraptured by my captor.

Now she's whispering of freedom,

metal spoons wedged deep in eyes.

It's tickling and scratching my throat.

I wait for her screams,

that esophageal fire.

(It is coming)

My relief an IV plunge,

never coming quite soon enough.