What does mundane mean when you grow up in suburban america? Well versed in small talk, laughing on cue, smiling politely, covering up the indecency of being a woman, burying my queerness below the "nice girl" look.
Able to slip into my role in this world, yet I still have not mastered the skill of hiding my wild boldness, my restless feet, my aching hands, my lustful eyes. Your talk of babies and tour vacations has driven me to madness before. Driven me to months in bed, anxiety brewing under the covers; to feel, to crave, to understand anything outside of your lies.
It may not be the mundane that bothers me so about suburban life. It may just be the way you are all able to cover up the truth. You lie so well, box it away in the attic, along with the ghosts of your past.
However, I cannot ignore the madness of this world. It weighs heavy on my lap when I sit down, my arms clumsily wrapped around it always. It jangles round my hips as I run down these quiet roads. And when I walk into your perfectly made living room, I can see you gaze upon my demons. Your gaze burns with a craving for the ability to face the gory truth of it all. But that would mean quite a bit of unpacking, wouldn't it? And gosh, unpacking is just so cumbersome.
You see, I don't pack mine up at all. It's boiling on my skin, embedded in my clothes. I've shown you my depressed nights, my manic binges, my crazed travels, my sporadic romantics. I cannot trust you all with your hidden truths. You are an explosion waiting to happen. I've seen it, the quiet suburban house burning softly when a truth comes to run away.
