Songs of the Soul

Scream

There's a cricket on my floor
And it waits

It tenses at the shadow hovering over it
It jumps

Flinch back
Maybe scream a little
Try to brush it off

A jerking nervous system
Ticking time bomb til the last five seconds
Held strings tightly, tauntly
Scared.

It's only a bug
Smaller than a matchbook but still
Large in my mind large in my fear

Hence, the scream

I never use the same scream twice
Like Tsarina Elizabeth and clothes
I never wear a yelp again after it's used
Not because it's no longer worthy
But because after its duty
After its pent up breath
The scream dies
Peacefully
Mostly

I suppose you could say that each scream is a worker with one job
And it waits its entire life to perform its swan song
It may even practice beforehand
Silently
But then the day comes when it is called to the front
It's not frightened
It's ready
And it gives itself to the life in a glorious explosion
No regrets
Even if it is only for the sight of a black carapace skittering across the floor.

Strange
That the scream can sacrifice itself willingly, no hesitation or worry
For my fear
(Or at least, the expression of it)

But that's the way the world turns
So that the ones who sacrifice themselves for little more than startled feelings
Go forth into the night
Are they remembered, all of them, for their service?
Well. Do you remember every scream?

Of course
We can't all be Edvard Munch

But.
Should we use our screams on the bugs in our world?
Or should we save them for the real skeletons in the closet
Or the really good jump scare on Halloween
Or perhaps,
Try to scream not all so much