Give me your best bloodcurdling scream.
Scream at old sweaters. Because they make you itch.
Do it in your parents’ house, at the dinner party, while guests speak but say nothing. Uncross your knees, if you please. Don’t scream with your mouth closed.
Do it in the kitchen, on white tiles, wear shoes painted with mud. Tap dance. Hold all the sharp knives, wedge each tight between fingers, just because…
You are motherfuckin’ Wolverine!
Then for years at your birthday, when friends fail to surprise you, stand in the dark and drop your jaw to the floor.Scream like it’s the start of the apocalypse.
Like little do the no-shows know, you’ve got a bomb shelter in your basement.
Scream, dead of night, in the road, in your underwear.
At unchanging stoplights. And mosquitoes, as they eat you alive.
Scream until your heart screams back, a war cry, eardrums beating with blood.
Until your whole body vibrates.
And you float through brick walls.
Until you are the air around you, scream.
Like you’re a doll in a dreamhouse.
Like you’re entirely made up,
of the most beautiful sound.
The History of Love