Quiet desperation

A howl.

A silent midday howl behind a convenient mask

that doesn’t hide the horror coming from my eyes.

An unstoppable, unmistakable stream of tears trying to come out,

but what for?

How many times have I cried before?

It didn’t change anything.

I blame parts of me as if they were different people,

I regret the past as if it would solve something.

The howl has a name,

and the curse of the faith keeps me on howling,

silently,

like and infidel’s prayer.

Midday, midnight, midmorning, midafternoon.

A howl in quiet desperation.