So which are you, the volcano or the tornado?

The cheap, wood paneling of this room should not have been painted, kind as the intentions may have been. The once cheery pink has faded to a sad, sickly grey-purple, leaving one feeling upset of stomach rather than comfortable.
I look around, taking in my surroundings and fellows. Everyone does their best to avoid eye contact with me. Some absently stir their stale coffee, others pick at scabs or dry skin. No one wants to see themselves, much less me.
A young man picks at loose pieces of tile with the tip of his scuffed work boot. He wears a thick leather braclet to hide the scars we can all see anyway. I don't even need to look at his arms to see the scars, they're there in his eyes. His self hatred is clear as day, what he sees as weakness is written across his knitted brow.
We're all here for the same reason. Well, they are, I'm an observer. And no, not in a 'I-want-to-be-Tyler' kind of way. Although, I am your Narrator.
The hands on the clock align and a kind of silence settles over the gathering. Fifteen or so young to middle aged adults straighten in metal folding chairs, the logo of the host church spray painted on the backs.
I wander to the back of the room, seeking a better vantage point. A woman in standard Bank issue grey rises and turns to face the crowd.

"There was a time, in all our lifes, that we were on the right path. We were not ashamed of who we are, or what we did. We are here in this place to find our ways back onto that path."
She pauses and looks around the room, I'm the only face she doesn't know and I lift a hand to wave, but she goes on.
"This is a safe place. A place free of judgment and hurt."
There is a pause as she lets her words settle.
"None of us need to stand alone. Who would like to share?"
The young man I noticed earlier twitches his fingers in a way that almost suggests the raising of a hand. He stands and the woman sits.
"Whenever a person talks about sex, everyone around them assumes they know what you mean. If I bring it up to my friends, they think they know what, or who, I mean. Same with family. If you mention sex, everybody thinks they know. Like, you can't talk about it without having had it. So to your people on the outside, bringing it up is like saying 'hey, my name is Jack and I'm a whore' or a user, or a slut, or a man. Sex is conquest and victory makes men. Someone told me that once and it sounded good, sounded fun. That was before I realized that conquest works both ways. It's embarrasing, having people think they know you. I try to be honest about who I am, who have been, but..."

The boy's fingers take on that same twitch, this time dismissing his words. His hands betray his voice.
"...but they don't know. I don't tell everybody everything. No matter how honest I try to be, it's not possible. I tell them one thing, they assume they know the rest. I dunno. I don't have a problem with sex, I have a problem with guilt."
"Do you feel guilty?"
The woman speaks from her seat and the mood shifts from a confession to a public therapy session. I scan the audience and every member is paying rapt attention. Someone to my left lights a cigarette and I lose myself in the smoke, wishing I weren't trying so hard to quit. I clear my throat and she blows her smoke away from me. I wish she wouldn't.
"I feel like I should."
"Can anyone else relate?"
Eyes roam about the room, none of the previous avoidance now. The smoking woman next to me lets out a long exhale through chapped lips, then speaks.
"You shouldn't feel bad unless you feel bad. Don't take on someone else's guilt to make them feel better. Sex is sex is sex, everybody does it, and if they don't, well...I can't even imagine that actually."
There is an uncomfortable silence. Based on how many people now swill the remaining coffee in their paper cups, I get the feeling it's not the first time this woman has spoken out. She drops her cigarette into my Dixie of cold joe and weaves her way to the door. She looks back over her shoulder at the young man.
"Don't let them tell you you're not beautiful."
I glance down into my cup as the stale liquid finally swallows the smoldering tip of her cigarette.

game face

You wouldn't like me,
if you met me now.
I'm not that little girl you once knew,
kneeling down beside that pew.

Once upon a time
I was pale as white
only failure being blood from my crown.

I put on that face
and I smiled along
and you fed me my lines,
told me what to say.

And those words because faith
and that faith became life
and that life was a lie.

That life was a lie
the little pills told.

Pills I drank w. communion wine,
swallowed all the same:
lies, stories, 'truths',
and you.

I had a lot of fun,
living for you.

I've had more fun
running from you.

The narrow road
is a hunters path.
Do you see the way
thru the brush?
Do you see the way
thru the truth?

God, forgive me now.
I can't stand the sight
of who I've become.

You wouldn't like me now,
I'm not that little girl
on the narrow road.

the day after this one

On the day after this one, maybe I'll learn. Maybe I'll cry. Maybe I'll finally let it sink it.
On the day after this one, I'll go ahead and talk, I'll really think about it, I'll 'deal' with it.
But, really, I'd rather not. I think I'll go ahead and keep on keepin' on (as it were).

Because there are those dark nights, those long silences when the pain creeps in, when the indescribable anger starts to boil up from the pit of my stomach. In these moments outside of time, I can feel my face burning, jaw clenching. I have nightmare flashes of my teeth popping under the pressure, shards of bone bloodying my mouth. Teeth, after all, are only bones pushed through gummy flesh.

I want to scream and I want to cry and I feel guilty because I don't. If I let it in, even a little, the old darkness comes streaming back in with it. Pain is pain is pain and I can't stand to lose the ground I've gained. So, for now, these bones are smilin'.