Grinding

They pointed it out

and suddenly I could feel it—

the way my teeth were pressed together,

the way my jaw had tightened

without asking permission.

I tried to relax.

Couldn't.

The tension just stayed there,

locked in.

It's what I do when I'm angry

but pretending I'm not.

When I'm listening to something

that makes me want to scream

but I'm smiling instead.

The jaw knows the truth.

The jaw doesn't lie.

They left the room

and I was alone with my clenched teeth,

still grinding,

still holding the anger

that I'd swallowed

and swallowed

and swallowed.

I tried to unclench.

My face didn't cooperate.

This is what happens

when you practice being fine

for long enough—

your body starts to believe

that it's supposed to hold things

that should be let go.

The tension stayed

for another hour after they left.