Silently Inside — Richard M. Cochran

I can taste the arsenic on my lips. It's not as bitter as tears. The screams awaken me from delusion. Hollow tendrils of fear and contempt beckon closer on frail wings sewn together by veins and dignity. I hear them scream at night when no one else is listening; when no one else is close enough to hear. Their hands are cold and rigid, coursing over my memories. Blank faces howl back and I am nothing anymore. I try to stand, to shake them off, but they clasp firm on my anguish. They know just where to prod. Listen and you could hear them too. They live just inside of you, under your skin in the subtle, soft spots where you wouldn't think they could breathe. Their voices, their f***ing voices are screams. Their hands are the needles that puncture. Their souls are burning hatred. We all live in this. Coldness seeps in when you're not looking. When it goes away, where will you be? Hands shake through the piss for warmth: converging on your ideas of blasphemy. I'm still inside. I can see you now. It's exactly what it is that they want you to believe it to be. There is no idea of today. There is only tomorrow.