Young Writers Society

we both have screams burrowed somewhere in our bones. 

we take the elevator two floors down—

the air smells like snow and tingles like snow but the ground is still uncovered

so we just zip our coats up right to the underbellies of our chins

and rush out. when we were feeling brave earlier we made plans 

to run into the woods, into the pitch, 

where all of our peripheral vision collapses into darkness,

and shriek at the edge of the lake. but now we are scared

and we hear coyotes yodelling 

and we only get to the first tree's shadow before we retreat.

there is still a scream itching at my muscles, creeping up through my throat,

so i pull you away from the buildings 

through the gravel parking lot

past the fire pit

into the field. 

here, the darkness is bearable—

faint light reaches us from the road and washes everything in grey. 

this place looks how loud things sound when you cover your ears.

here, gripping each others' hands, we open our mouths and scream:

raw, cracking, ugly. we tumble into the grass with relief. 

we revel in the silence that fills us up—

there is nothing left that needs saying tonight.