My eyes are sore and my throat is burning and at any second a tear will fall and turn into an avalanche of sobs.
But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.
Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
And my head is throbbing, in this cage I call my skull, and it pounds nails into my temples while whispering words that amplify to yells.
But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.
Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
Where tight smiles spill false promises and false promises create tight smiles.
My cheeks are burning from all of these tight smiles. As if, when I bare my teeth like a dog, all of the problems doing construction in my head will fade away.
As if my head is not following suit with my heartbeat as my heartbeat follows suit with my head. As the thoughts race my heart ricochets. As my thoughts ricochet my heart races.
Like they’re trying to outdo each other in a game of ping pong or tennis or basketball. Where foots stomp and the ball slams against the, once polished, now scuffed flooring.
But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.
Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
I’m tapping my fork against my untouched plate because I fear if I eat a bite it will come up in mere seconds. My stomach is woozy, like a boat on the ocean, fighting against this epic hurricane of thoughts. But this boat is the kind in a bottle.
My bottle of emotions I continue to bottle up because no one wants to open my bottle.
But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.
Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
I need to not be sitting at my family dinner table where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
My mouth is molded shut into this statue of a person I’ve become. People see the angelic carving while I’m stuck with the demonic insides. The parts people neglect.
The parts people don’t see.
“May I be excused?” I ask, in the kindest of ways, as my voice struggles against the whimper ready to escape my caged throat.
Every head turns toward me, for no one leaves the family dinner table where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
No one will own up to the fact that their emotions are a firework, the kind that sprinkles hot ashes across every part of your naked limbs as you lay there, unable to move. No one will talk about the fire, burning around us, as we all inhale the smoke from our minds into our lungs blackening them in a way that leaves us breathless.
No one will talk about the bleeding of our wounds we choose not to acknowledge, as they seep into our food, our lives, our writing, our talking. No- not our talking. Never our talking.
We never speak of such things.
For they would burn our tongues, scorch our social interactions, like a darkened match.
“You may be excused,” they answer in unison, each nodding the same way at the same time.
We are perfected soldiers preparing for war, readying to battle in a bloody war inside of our minds.
I nod, as well, slightly off beat to their own and they eye me suspiciously. Like I’m the ticking time bomb that would turn this gun powder, we call family, into oblivion.
I stand as my blood soaks the floor and my head throbs to the point it may detach itself from my neck.
What sweet release that would be.
And I walk in steps that twist my ankle, but I ignore the sting. As my legs snap in half and my arms twist and crack, I continue to walk.
For I just left my family dinner table.
Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
And every head it turned toward me.
I trudge along with my broken cracked damaged limbs until I reach the bathroom.
The room where unspoken breakdowns happen. Where we stitch our wounds and hide the scars with a bit of concealer and mascara.
Where we flush our tears and sorrows down the drain. And we sink back into our tight smiles, tightening them each turn of the faucet.
I close the door, lightly behind me, careful not to let my desperation float into the hallway, where my family dinner table sits.
Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
Where, if they knew of my actions, they would drag me from this room, nails scratching against this polished wood, and set me up back at my family dinner table.
Where they wouldn’t mend me, but tighten my loose seams and cut them off with the blade of their tight smiles. Their sharp tight smiles.
I am a ragdoll, unravelling and unravelling until eventually I'll be nothing but a knotted pile of yarn.
With the door closed, the avalanche comes.
Hot, sticky tears stream down my red cheeks and a singular sob chokes my burning throat. Like the strings of my ragdoll self are tightening around my neck, suffocating me and I can’t breathe. I’m holding the strings, clutching them in my fist, yet I can’t let go.
Thoughts are still smashing against the cage that is my skull, cracking it as the sound echoes through my body, pumping my veins along. I feel like a smoggy factory, my lungs filled with smoke, my mind coated in tar.
I kneel to the floor, giving in to the all mighty power that is my mind and my thoughts and the intrusive words and phrases that are chanted.
I’m bangind on my skull, as if I’m knocking on the door of my brain, begging it to let me in. Let me know the damage, point out the leaky faucet and the creaky doors and the splintery floors. I will bring my construction team that seem to have no problem tearing apart my skull and we and they together will fix the damage.
We’ll shine the windows that are my eyes, clear them of their blurry, foggy mess.
We’ll mend the key, that is my mouth, paste back all of the skin that’s been shredded.
We’ll tape back all of the limbs that are falling off, maybe superglue if that’ll be more powerful.
We’ll sling caution tape over the darkest and dirtiest parts of my mind, the parts that make me scream inside of my body. The screams that no one seems to hear.
I smush my knuckles into my eyes, the sludgy tears smearing their inky stain against my skin, reminding me of my sin that is my emotions.
I swallow back the aches and cries that are threatening to escape my mouth, for right outside the door is my family at my family dinner table.
Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
I fight against my lungs for breath, until they are filled to the brim, then release it once more, like the sinking of a balloon.
I tell myself to quiet down and not be such a child. For only children cry when they know, their mommy doesn’t want them.
When their daddy doesn’t care.
And their siblings are full of despair.
Then I stand back up, my knees wobbly, and wipe away the ink filled tears.
Smear on some concealer and touch up my mascara.
And then the work is done, my sobs are all worn out.
Leaving me with nothing but a dull aching consumed by doubt.
I wash the ink, the evidence, from my hands, and wipe them across the bright white towel, leaving not a trace of blood behind.
I tighten my seams, and along with it my smile.
I walk back out the door, my limbs attached, only barely.
And then I sit back down.
I am back at my family dinner table.
Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.
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