We used to have screaming matches on the playground. My friends and I would clench our tiny fists and squeeze our eyes tighter than exploding stars and let our vocal chords rip into the afternoon air. I always won.
There isn’t enough real screaming in the adult world. It’s all turned internal or into razor blades and bourbon. My lungs are aching and punching for a chance to let a scream slit the sky into shatters. They want to lacerate my ribcage and tear my esophagus into ribbons.
The killer in all of this? Our teachers would always run to us when we had our screaming matches and check our knees for scabs and our elbows for freckles of blood. But now if I let out a scream no one would come running.