Wrong

There is something wrong in this picture! There is something wrong. I am barely ready to describe it. It is beyond my language. I could only thrash it with language. But something needs to be done and I can hardly bear to stand it. I see it but I can't do anything.

Everything here is wrong. Nothing is comfortable.

Everyone has different schedules, sharing tiny spaces, no room to move, no room to breathe, even the scent of an air freshener crowds the room to the point where there is no inhabitable space. Clouds of gas rolling, filling, expanding, inflating, growing, popping. Fucking popping.

And you try to hold on. To something. To anything. Something that is yours. This room. No? This bed. No? This blanket? This pillow? This sheet? This...

There is nothing.

You are pushed and prodded and pulled. You're shoved around as your things are moved, taken, claimed.

You did the responsible thing. You went to your job, saved a little of your money, bought something for yourself with no help at all. And now, it is not yours, it is ours. And now, it's not ours, it's theirs.

They own that thing, because they "need" it. They fucking need it, M. They don't have their own, and they fucking need it.

And soon, nothing is yours. You have no property, only duty.

Do it, for the common good.

And while you do that, they sit. And they drink. They finish off another half gallon.

And now the scent of whiskey fills the room. Clouds of gas rolling, filling, expanding, inflating, growing, popping. Fucking popping.

And you thought you had cleaned it all up so well before.

It feels like the world is closing in on you. Everything, getting closer and closer, crowding you, snarling, growling, bared teeth and claws, and you can kick and punch and fight for your life, but they'll only tear you apart.

So you scream.

You scream with all of the fury you have built up in your lungs, unleashing sound waves with enough strength to push everything bad and scary away.

But when you stop screaming, it all comes hurtling back.

Everything here is wrong.

You're willing to blame it all on me. You're scrabbling for reasons to make it all my fault. I'm a liar, I'm an addict. Never mind that you're pretentious, a know-it-all, cold, off-putting, and cruel. It's good to have firm beliefs. It's not good to have such firm beliefs you won't hear or consider anyone else's opinion. Deodorant is a wonderful thing. So is brushing your goddamn teeth. It's not all your fault, but it's not all my fault, either. The only reason I didn't leave months ago was because I love your daughter, and couldn't bear the thought of never seeing her again. And now I won't. Fuck you.

No matter what I do I seem to be in the wrong. It's my fault that my parents are upset all the time. I broke my mother's heart. I am the cause of all of the family financial problems. I don't work hard enough. No, I didn't do well enough on that. I don't cook well enough. I don't clean well enough. I am not good enough.

But they'll see.... I'll get out of here and never come back.

Bastards