I want to scream
There is a circuitboard in my chest where a cable is constantly dragged over the surface by a
steady hand of someone who knows the right way to leave a mark
it is not by me or anyone I know
it is by a slipstream of antisomnia, red and coiled, that gusts against everywhere I'm not
that frays the wires of everywhere I am
with its heat
ethereal
magnetizing
to me.

the hand has tried to reach further, sometimes.
I snap back.
I have taken chunks from it.
They taste like ash and clay.
it dissolves in my mouth, leaving it clogged as it runs in dribbles over my nerves.
the individual particles are crafted into daggers such that a mark is left with an etch microns wide and miles deep.
when it goes down I feel myself choke on what half of me is convinced
wants to believe
is nothing.
I do not enjoy the taste.
But sometimes the daggers are a fuel hunger cannot reject.

this battery inside of me has been lanced from consecutive slipstreams and cablecuts
I'm used to it draining
mercury poisoned in regurgitated tinge in mutilated oil in digested-dagger oil
the hand doesn't like it
so I make sure I bleed myself dry all over it.

I want to scream
this is not well written for the precise reason that a scream never can be
the eardrums are shot from the force of the sound whose brunt they double over to bear
the microphone crackles when the sound demands too much of its factory-crafted, ordained design
the tape splinters when you play it back too many times and the medium elects self-annihilation as substitute for having to shout another second
the medium is the walking corpse on which I lay my power lines, torn off from the storm, and kick from the scaffolding so it may land close to where someone can see
and it will keep walking
tendons and circuitry and guts sidewalk-graffiti'd mural'd
before its medium is lost fully
for the precise reason
that nobody likes a splattered mess.

I want to scream
why haven't you closed your ears yet?