Bruschetta

Unless you are Italian, you cannot possibly understand my love for bruschetta. Toasted bread with oil, topped with tomatoes and parsley and peppers and all sorts of delicious herbs, combine to create something comparable to sex in my mouth.

I've eaten bruschetta in too many restaurants to count, but my favorite by far is the kind my grandmother (and consequently, my mother) makes. I currently have a slight stomachache simply because I could not resist eating just one more of Nonna's bruschettas.

It is a familiar process to me - I sit in my room, oblivious to the deliciousness in my near future. Suddenly, I smell it; first the bread, then the tomatoes, and then the herbs.

"Can it be?" I ask myself.

"Dinner!" my mother calls.

I sprint downstairs and bank a hard left into the kitchen. "Mom, did you make-"

I see it.

I swoop in for the kill.

I enjoy.

(And by the way, it's pronounced "bru-sket-ta".)

Silence

I'm sitting there in the car and the voices won't stop and I turn the music up because it drowns them out some
He tells me to turn it down in the way that makes me hate him so much
Of course I can't
But I do
And they won't stop and I turn it up and they won't stop and I turn it up
Ignoring, trying to ignore
Failing like I always do
Turning it up and turning it up and they won't stop and they won't stop and threats and turn it down and down and down
I'm sitting there with the dark circles under my eyes and in the jeans from years ago, the ones that made me feel fat
(I guess some things never change)
And it just won't stop
And the music stops and I can't take the noise
And it's all noise, good noise and bad noise and god I just want
Silence.