The Silent Struggle

Oh no, here it comes…

That slow, creeping pressure,

like a balloon inflating inside me,

but not the kind you bring to a party.

No, this is the secret, sneaky kind,

the kind that makes you question your life choices.

I try to hold it in—

the noble struggle of dignity vs. digestive freedom.

But nature, oh, she’s persistent.

It’s like a tiny orchestra tuning up inside,

but with way too much brass.

What if someone hears it?

Or worse—smells it?

There’s no escape plan.

I’m trapped in this moment,

locked in a battle against my own body,

and losing.

I wonder… if I shift just a little,

maybe I can silence it,

turn it into one of those ninja farts,

the kind that slips out unnoticed,

like a whisper in the wind.

Nope, too late.

It escapes with a triumphant squeak,

like a mouse on helium.

Why? Why must it be so musical?

I glance around.

Did anyone hear?

The room’s too quiet.

I swear, the air itself is judging me.

No one makes eye contact,

but I can feel their thoughts:

"Was that a chair… or…?"

Let’s just pretend it was the chair.

Chairs are the perfect scapegoats for fart crimes.

And then it hits me—

the smell.

Oh dear God, it’s worse than I imagined.

Like something crawled inside me and died,

but not before eating three-day-old burritos.

I silently pray for a gust of wind,

or for everyone’s noses to suddenly malfunction.

But wait, what if I own it?

Just stand up, arms wide, and declare:

“Yes, I farted, and I am proud!”

No, too risky.

I’m not ready for that level of confidence.

So, I sit in my cloud of shame,

hoping it drifts away before anyone breathes too deeply.

At least it wasn’t a loud one… this time.