recipe.

speak up about how i feel; that’s what i was told when i was little.

i was told that my feelings mattered.

i was told that i was loved.

i was told that i was safe.

 

so, i tell him why i’m feeling down. why i’m hurting. why i’m not able to find happiness right now.

i instantly see his face change; i’ve complicated his day.

now, he’s yelling at me. making sure i know that i’m ungrateful. that i’m wrong. that i have no right to feel like i do.

now, he’s bringing up the past, with clenched fists and gritted teeth.

my head is down, my eyes, through the tears, try to just focus on the ground.

i start apologizing.

the quicker i make him believe i’m sorry, the quicker i make my tone sound happy again, the quicker this can all be done.

i feel embarrassed that i felt how i did in the first place.

 

now, he’s just mad. i need to make him feel better because i caused all of this in the first place.

i have to make sure he knows it’s not him. it’s me. it’s all me.

i wonder why i said anything; it always ends up like this.

i wonder why i’m not better at keeping it quiet. why do i feel like i need to talk? why can’t i just write? why can’t i just think? why do i feel i need to have a voice?

i hold my head down.

i keep my eyes to the ground.

i apologize, again, for ever saying a thing.

i vow, to myself, to next time stay quiet.

 

like this time.

this time, i’m doing it right.

this time, i’ve kept the peace.

this time, we can have a good evening without me ruining it all with how i feel inside.

 

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