That look.
That eye piercing, judgmental, closed expression that leaves you closed out.
She’s already made up her mind. She’s done speaking even before words
were spoken. She’s done. It doesn't matter what you say now, no matter
the white in your words. She’s constructed a story, in that rock thick
head, it’s become a truth. And even if the two of you were to find
some kind of agreement, she will always express doubt. She will
always think you're telling a lie. She'll walk away, ready to tell
the story she’s constructed and place words in your mouth.
And you’ll cry, in the room right above her. You’ll cry in
frustration, and anger, as a distasteful flavor fills your
mouth – the taste of false quotation and fabricated
words. The part that’s going to kill you inside is
the fact that you're going to go back downstairs
and act like nothing ever happened in that room
right above her. If she can’t hear you when you’re
right in front of her, there’s no way she’d hear the sound
of dozens of tears as they roll down your cheek and crash onto
the hardwood floor. A stain that will remain for only a few moments,
then it'll dry out, dead. And you'll put on a façade and agree with her lies
because you never wanted any trouble. You never wanted to see her mad or
disappointed. You'll just agree because you convinced yourself it’s the right thing
to do. Well everytime you lie to yourself, it adds a pebble to your back. You’ll
become a slave to these lies and carry them everywhere. And with each one
you’ll feel more and more alone until you're about to snap. You’ll go to her
for comfort and she'll tell you everything is okay and that this is just
teenage angst. Another lie, placed into your mouth as you agree.
Another pebble. Another back break. Another tear.
But who’s counting? You are. Who cares?
You do. And, in the end,
who’s alone?
You are.