The rug
That corner of the rug is dangerously high.
Too many things pushed under there
that you don’t want to see.
It’s not just us, it’s the entire family.
The sister who repeatedly berates and vilifies you,
only to return like nothing happened.
She’s going to make you a spaghetti dinner
after months of silence,
instead of saying she was sorry
and owning what she did.
The controlling mother you all dance around
because setting boundaries
means there will be consequences
and everybody wants to avoid that.
Using tears to evoke guilt,
acting like something never happened
when you know it did,
loving with so much expectation
instead of plain, honest conversation.
I bring it up and you say it sounds like
I am upset and need you to help me through it.
I don’t need saving.
In response, you say you miss me,
This has all been in there,
waiting to spill out.
I don’t say a lot of this because
as I realized last night,
I also have fallen into the trap
of adding stuff to the pile under the rug.
But the pile under there is
becoming impossible to ignore.
I am in the middle of it
and I don’t want to be here any more.
This lands in a very honest place. There comes a point where what has been pushed under the rug stops being hidden and starts becoming the shape of the room. So many of us know what it feels like to carry the unspoken, to keep moving around old hurt because naming it might disturb the peace everyone else is trying to protect. But silence has a weight too. Sometimes we do not need saving as much as we need truth to be allowed into the room without being softened, dismissed, or turned into guilt. I hope this spilling out gives your spirit a little more space to breathe. 🤍