Beneath My Skin

         I'm just a woman, like most others. You might see me sitting at a small cafe table with a friend, drinking coffee and smiling. Trading artificial antecdotes of the days events, without ever addressing anything below the surface.

         I am the one that is always "fine", has "broad shoulders" and "nothing much bothers". Oh, I know, I've heard it before, if I shared more about what went on inside, maybe others would see. I don't think so. After listening for a few moments to their trials, it is apparent that they aren't interested in anothers.

         But underneath...well that is a different story. I shake my fists above my head. Stomp my feet, jump up and down, rant and rave, curse the day. Then onto the ground stiffening every muscle so tight that a board could not be straighter, pounding my fists and kicking my legs, up and down, up and down. Kneeling and banging the floor with the sides of my hands over and over and over and over. Whisking anything on the nearest table, to the ground with the loudest of crashes, creating a cacophony of noise heard miles away. And.. opening my mouth, letting out the biggest, loudest, longest scream that could only be challenged by one being bludgeoned.

         As we rise to leave the table, still smiling, thanking the waitress for her service and promising to meet again soon, I cannot remember what we spoke of, or what the coffee tasted like. My smile stays in place and for one more moment I am "in control". I leave the cafe, and I notice that the sides of my hands ache...