Pass the salt

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”

Published by Zahra

A young woman with a passion for the written word, social justice and culture.

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