On Fighting With Your Parents

I never get to explain myself in this house. Instead, I curse. My parents hate the F word. A simile for fornication. A simile for a sin. But I said it. Over and over again just to punch them in the stomach. And now my wild tongue is strapped to my teeth. Lips sunken, screams tightening them like sewing needles. Rivers pouring down my neck, I wish I couldn’t breathe, but I stay afloat. Hearing a father, a mother scream outside your door makes your skin spike. The worst music in the world on infinite loop until an apology is given. Even though both sides should have seen the red flags from the moment she threw her teacup on the floor. From the moment I watched the porcelain pieces spread outward against the black granite, like a star exploding. Like every lost wish she had, scattering to hide in different corners. The tea that was inside spreads like skin just like me, laying on my floor, pulling my own hair. Wishing the carpet was lava, and that’s not a joke although part of me wants to let go of my mind like a balloon and laugh through all of this. I start screaming too, doing the very thing I hate. I turn my music up, the same music that heals me, the same music that presses blades against her heart. Speakers on full volume. We drown each other.

 

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