A Box Full of Joy
He was angry with me. I knew he was. It was spelt out in the set of his chin and the pallor of his skin. It was written in the dots of his irises and the tense in his shoulders. I think I would have preferred the shouting screaming, spit flinging wrath that meant that I knew where I stood. This ‘Silent treatment’ was worse than any fat lip and black eye I ever got before. It was worse because with every other breath I can convince myself I’m imagining his anger. Why would he be angry with me? What have I done? What haven’t you done? You’ve hurt him. He’s hurt because of you, look at his shoes, and glare at it. You did it. You did it. He hates you- love and anger mixes like salt and water- you cannot separate it. But hate boils the salt out and now he hates you. He hates you. Thoughts start like snowflakes and you admire as they fall, breaking on your eyelashes so you can’t quite see them. But you feel them instead, clinging to where they are not wanted. Soon, flake by fla