The Things I Think While Folding Laundry

I want to scream that I am drowning in unfolded towels and unmet expectations.

I want to tell you that some days I fantasize about running away to a dusty motel with no Wi-Fi and no sticky fingerprints on the fridge.

I want to admit that I hate the sound of my own sighs, the way they echo at 2 a.m. when I’m wide awake counting all the ways I’m failing.

I want to confess that I envy the neighbor’s perfect lawn,

the girl on Instagram with her Pilates arms,

the woman at Target who seems to glide through life without a cart full of guilt.

I want to tell you that when I say “I’m fine,”

I really mean

I’m tired of carrying everyone else’s feelings in my mouth like loose teeth.

I mean

I’m terrified that one day I will disappear into the dirty laundry pile and no one will even notice.

I want to admit that I love you so much it feels like an open wound.

That when you kiss me on the forehead, I feel like a child and a goddess at the same time.

That sometimes I resent you for how easily you sleep while I stay up editing the movie of our life frame by frame.

I want to whisper that I miss the girl I was before the baby weight and the birthday candles and the endless appointments.

The girl who wore bright lipstick to the grocery store just because she wanted to be seen.

I want to tell you that I am both too much and never enough,

a roaring ocean trapped in a mason jar,

a wolf wearing a cardigan.

I want to say all this,

but instead,

I fold another shirt.

I press out the wrinkles.

I tell you I’m fine.

I pour your coffee and kiss your cheek.

And you say,

“Thanks, babe,”

like I didn’t just hold a universe between my teeth.