He was talking to me about my rug
He told me that all I do is sweep things under it
I said I know.
I said that I’d been wearing the same mask day in and day out without a thought to stop and breathe
That I could feel everything under that rug growing bigger, growing angier the longer it stayed under there.
Like puss growing under my skin, it won’t disappear unless it erupts without warning
That I didn’t want to think about touching it
I wanted see if anyone would notice.

So we talked
We talked about anything and everything but nothing that was under the rug
And then he asked me this,
He asked me how long I was planning on building a wall inside myself so high the the bricks and concrete would begin to replace me
Until they would start to cripple me.
My answer was silence.

He told me that I was living as though I didn’t belong in my own skin
That I’d rather pretend that none of it is real than bleed the emotions I so quickly feel
But when I opened my mouth no words came out.
That’s when I realised that my throat was hoarse
I’d been screaming
He touched my face, hands wet with my tears
I didn’t say a word
The very words having eaten at me from the inside out
My body had no more room.
Filled to the brim with nothing of value
My rug had no more room.