Sometimes the scream rises in me 
like an elevator with no brakes, 
clattering up the spine, 
lights flickering, 
warning sirens warming my throat. 

And I smile instead;
a too‑bright crescent 
stitched onto my face 
like a neon sign that forgot 
what it was advertising. 

The scream doesn’t vanish. 
It just changes shape. 
It becomes a chandelier 
swinging wildly in an empty room, 
glass trembling like it wants to jump. 

It becomes a hallway 
that stretches too far, 
doors multiplying, 
each one marked 
not now, not now, not now. 

It becomes a flock of birds 
flying in the wrong direction, 
wings beating against the weather 
I pretend not to feel. 

And the smile.
The smile holds;
a thin porcelain lid 
on a pot that keeps boiling 
even when the stove is off. 

No one hears the scream 
because it learned to speak 
in the language of posture, 
in the dialect of “I’m fine,” 
in the accent of 
“don’t worry about me.”

But it’s there, 
pacing the perimeter, 
testing the fences, 
waiting for the day 
I stop being the curator  
of my own quiet chaos.