You Don't Scream The Same

what’s the thrill in skin that doesn’t shiver?

i remember how loud it was the first time.
so loud i think it made the walls peel.
that it could save me.
loud things get noticed, don’t they?
crying children get the side-eye, sirens mean there’s help.

but something happens when you realize there’s no cavalry,
just the shape of your own shadow against the ceiling.

so i got quiet.
not at once—
more like… when iron cools down.
still hot in places, but gradually less.
it’s loud at first, followed by hisses,
and then its only silence that is left.

the last time, he leaned close and said
you don’t scream the same.

like it was a flaw.
like he’d broken the toy.

i didn’t answer.
didn’t blink.
didn’t flinch.

because monsters leave corpses alone, right?

and i was already gone anyway.
a body and some skin, at best.
just meat gone cold.

predators hate leftovers.

no screaming. no scrambling. no biting.
no trying to kick myself free from underneath like the first time.
no hands clawing at his arms.
no fear in my eyes, no tears down my cheeks.
no begging to let me go, no pleas.

that bored him.
and what’s the thrill in skin that doesn’t shiver?

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