Not supposed to tell

I'm not supposed to talk about
those many things back then.
I'm not supposed to speak about
so many things I see and hear
around me here and now.

This voice has always wished for,
hoped for, prayed for anyone
to choose to truly stop and listen.

No matter what I should be doing;
no matter what the protocol;
I am going to scream of something,
one of too many things forgotten.

You cannot hear this scream,
but it's as sharp and bitter shrill
as any pain you might have known.

When I take myself back in time,
to that smelly mold-infested closet;
It's not so hard to speak about
the core of those black feelings.
It's just that words can't ever serve
to capture the horror and the terror
of what so cruelly happened there.

Sometimes the screams break free
into a flood of disconnected tears.
When the woeful sobbing ceases,
this grief and sorrow seems relieved;
and another living day seems possible.