Pressure Cooker

Bubbling water, escaping steam

The slow buildup to a whistle

It betrays the pressure underneath

Gritting teeth, tense shoulders

Causing a churning within

Leading to unseen invisible explosions

The pressure to conform

The pressure to please

With brain and tongue searching for excuses

And the heart straining to lash out

And then you take a moment

Just before the tipping point

Making up your mind

You go for a long sweet whistle of steam

As you exhale, shoulder loosens, teeth stop grating and your nerves send up a prayer of gratitude.

They pray, never again.

Never again shall you burst from inside.

And yet here we are cooking the very next day.