We sit around the dinner table
A happy family, or so it seems.
The silence is so loud, so we fill it
with phatic talk of the weather and bills and TV
I stay silent.
I’d rather sit in the ugly truth than be a part of the facade.
My mother pulls a face at me. I suppose she’s trying to make me laugh.
I return it with a weak smile.
It’s so loud inside my mind.
It feels like scribbles in a black biro. Over and
over again. In my head I’m screaming.
But on the outside I ask
“Pass the Salt”