Full of shit | Sreedhari Desai

full of shit

he’s east coast…
the kind of honest
that doesn’t warm up first.

he says he’ll call in an hour.
an hour turns into three
and the phone sits there
like a dead fish
on the table.

i don’t know he’s buried
under work
and government paperwork…
forms with little boxes
where your life gets folded
into “yes/no,”
“sign here,”
“wait.”

i call to check on him.
he picks up
and i’m already halfway gone,
voice polite,
face arranged.

he says,
you don’t sound happy to hear me.

and i do my whole act.
it’s my painting brushes…
the lines just won’t behave.
it’s just... life's ebbs and flows.
it’s the migraine from yesterday.

all these clean little stories
i hand out
like i’m running a booth.

but the truth is
my jaw hurts
from holding it in.

the truth is
i’ve been trained
to be a good indian girl…
soft voice, straight back,
anger kept behind glass
like a temple bell
you’re not allowed to ring
unless someone else says it’s holy.

so i swallow it.
i call it “fine.”
i call it “nothing.”

he goes quiet
the way a man goes quiet
when he’s listening
for the real animal.

then he says it…

not mean,
not even loud…
just accurate:

you’re full of shit.
tell me what’s wrong.

and something in me cracks
like a cheap cup.

i say:
i was worried.
i was angry.
i didn’t know where you went.
i didn’t know if you still cared.

the words pour out
like they’ve been stuck in traffic
for years.

he says,
steady as a hand on your shoulder:
i’m steadfast in my affections.
i just have a lot to do.

no violin music.
no roses with a speech bubble.
just the truth.

and god…
it’s a relief.

to stop being graceful.
to stop being “well-mannered”
at the cost of being real.

to let anger sit down, finally,
at our table…
not as a weapon,
not as shame…
just a living thing
that wants to be seen
before it turns feral.