The Dinner Bell is Ringing

The biscuits are in the oven because they take the longest to cook. When you’re cooking you have to start with what takes the longest but you also have to consider the prep work too. Cooking is about timing and 20 years of picking up little tricks your mother figure had to learn the hard way.

The biscuits are in the oven and you’re mad at me again. I was mad at you and I didn’t get over it the second you said sorry. I made it worse because instead of pretending to get over I will have to console you for hurting my feelings. I don’t know what else I’m going to make. You’re yelling at me and I can only be creative when I’m not scared.

I know you hate onions so that’s where I’ll start. I like ginger so I add some of that and for a minute I can’t hear you over the frying sound. The distraction turns into a vodka sauce, and I have to dig into my closet for the vodka. You follow me around and no one is watching the sauce.

I quicken my pace to the kitchen and you think I’m running away from you but that’s not what I’m doing at all. I open the oven and the biscuits are half cooked. I turn to you and you’re face is red. I want to laugh at you. I want to tell you that there is no level of violence that you can escalate to that would scare me.

I don’t even bother. You wouldn’t get it and I may feel invincible but I know you can physically do me damage. You have emotionally and I can feel you smiling when you turn away from telling me something that ruins my week. I can feel the satisfaction seeping from you when you sleep. You aren’t actually smart enough to purposefully pull me apart but I am. You set the ball rolling and I did all the heavy lifting for you.

I stir the sauce and I boil some water. The steam feels good on my face, even as it begins to burn. I’d rather face the burning steam than laugh in your face. I don’t know what you have been saying but I know why you’re mad. In my head I can perfectly compose your dialogue.

You always have to have some attitude and you can never just be nice. You act cold all day and then when I try to help you act even bitchier. You want me to read your mind and know what to do when I don’t even know what made you mad in the first place.

I don’t care that you don’t know me. I’ve opened up to you and showed you everything. To you it was a one time thing, but it never leaves my mind. My mind is the result of being pressed into these circumstances and being bent until unrecognizable from who I was supposed to be.

I check on the biscuits and they need a few more minutes. I look back at you because you asked me a question.

I don’t know

You don’t know if you want to be here

I’ve never known that. I was eleven when I first tried to leave and my brother walked in my bathroom and I put the thought away. I’ve had countless opportunities and equally as many urges. But there is always something to nudge me forward and just keep waiting.

I ride my skateboard around and I wonder if the wind will blow me either way. Into leaving or staying. It just makes the same whistling noise every time.

You’re quiet now and my blood is rushing in my ears. I’m sweating on my back, but its another thing you can’t see of me. I want a glass of wine and I regret not just holding back earlier.

There’s no greater satisfaction than letting myself inside yell and scream and be mad, but it exists for only that moment.