Lemon Peels

Anger is something that takes over
uncontrollable and binding of my soul.
Fingernails bite into palm flesh
as my fist clenches tightly,
like finding lemon juice in a pulp,
while I listen, swallowing repeatedly.
I divide my life into three parts:
the first is before my parents’ divorce
when everyone was whole,
the second is the space afterwards
where we waited to heal, or for redemption,
the third, and happiest, my marriage,
when I came together with myself again.
But now there is a fourth;
another affair, another divorce
for my mother to go through,
for us kids to go through.
The taste of peels puckers my face,
tight lips bound from fresh air.
Old memories enrage me so;
the fake persona he portrayed at my wedding
or at home around the family table.
I ask him of betrayal in hope of answers,
or just the one: why?
I don’t care which or when however.
There is always a
father
right in the middle of pain commenting
and contorting the image in front of eyes.
“She’s just a friend” means the end of bonds,
“I’m sorry” is just pretend words in a fairytail,
the worst, “You don’t understand” rings true.
I don’t.
But I know the answers of secrets.
Even lemon peels have a purpose
when placed in potpourri –
bitter no more.