Twenty Four.

I wish I could scream,
but I swallow it whole,
bitter, boiling bile
swirling low in the swell
of my belly
until I am bulging
with raging fire,
pouring white,
searing light
from my fragile,
wilting pores.
I am symbolically,
metaphorically
drowning in my own rage,
lungs filling with black sludge
that I should spit out
onto the table,
into my plate
(so the waitress doesn't
have to clean up my mess)
but instead I gulp the tar
down my throat
like the water that could save me
but this is poisoning me,
an infection turning septic.

I need to learn how to be more vocal.