Hanging. 

And I wish it didn’t cripple me, the way it seems to do. 

The shame and fear of wanting to leave, but not knowing where to go. 

Of understanding fragments of conversation, but not enough to feel included or alive. 

Like a toddler, always waiting for cues and words to solve the puzzle.

 The kids are smiling and happy, and the sun is shining. 

Washing on the clothes horse. 

Food in the refrigerator. 

Why are you fucking complaining?

Thoughts in capital letters float behind my eyes. 

Yelling. 

Crying silently in the shower; podcasts drown it out. 

Weeping on the toilet. 

Sobbing in the dark. 

Jaw clenched.

Forcing laughter from the cracks of my mouth, watching Netflix.

Glazed over. 

Mind in a million, trillion places. 

Jerking back and forth. 

Happy, sad

Confident, ashamed

Optimistic, suicidal

I am trying so hard not to be “that wife”. 

You know the one I mean.. “That wife”. 

The one that nags and complains at her tired husband.

That wife.. with her unkempt hair, double chin wobbling with each word. 

And her ugly fucking sweat pants. 

I chew it down with too much food.

Over my calories, again

Stare at the woman in the mirror. 

Where is Siobhan

When are you going to bring her back?

Silence. 

Fuck you. 

Yeah.. fuck you. 

Rinse and repeat.  

Rinse and repeat. 

Rinse and repeat

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