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That urge that makes you want to scream at the very peak of your lungs. You know, until you feel as if they rip and a hole tears through your throat. And this fire within, that, on most days is suffocated, gets fed bit by bit and becomes more difficult to contain. Composure starts to slip and patients run dim. This sensation is harvested profoundly into my chest.
A fool to accuse so loosely with sewn shut eyes. Yet, I sit, like an inward bomb with a shortened fuse. Hour to hour for days and days, this fire is being jostled and jabbed. And always confined.
It's difficult.
