Dissonance (n):
1. Lack of harmony among musical notes.
2. Lack of agreement or harmony between people or things.
Arguments burn your throat. If it doesn't burn, it itches it instead; unhappy that words are being held captive in fear of consequence from your opponent. Itchiness like skin which tingles when it wants - to you, needs - to be opened. Unlucky coping mechanisms rear their heads when you're trying to resolve the dissonance.
The harmony of this song is out of wack. Keys are played wrong and the pitch is too low, too high, too something. The balance is off. It sounds grating and it hurts your head, distorting your thoughts. Thoughts that are already on the severe side of mental.
You're walking on a tightrope the next day and everybody can see it. Too quick to smile at the offender; too quick to laugh when they make their weak attempts at humour as an attempt to put a plaster on the wound that yesterday made. The many wounds. The ones they made and the ones you wish you could make back, but yet, you can't quite open your mouth in case a sob replaces something. You forget the memo about speaking the truth even if your voice trembles. It's not worth the satisfaction of giving in and letting them see that they hurt you.
Memories of words go like bullets through you. Your mind flashes back to the time when you wished you were dead. Maybe you should've gone through with it after all. Maybe it would've been better. Then you notice the nature around you; grass floating around your ankles with dandelions that have no white cloud around them because you've wished them away. The way the clouds melt into the powder blue sky like ice cubes in lemonade. Life goes on. Escaping those hardly soundproof walls gives you the opportunity to collect your head before peacefulness goes to die as you're forced to go home.
Half-hearted apologies escape lips but you only oblige so that life can go on. Historically, eggshells feel painful under bare feet. Apologies are a necessity. You mutter it over cold supper, mouth it in a crowd of friends, shout it through walls to stop their sobs from echoing in the bathroom tiles. You're both in the wrong. Guilt is not a stranger of yours or theirs. Reminders of arguments make you feel like your skin has been turned inside out. You hate it. But you can't hate them.
How could you hate them? Because they gave you sunflowers when the rest of the world gave you weeds. Because they gave you smiles when you couldn't hide your frowns. Because they were the soft harp accompaniment alongside a piano melody and made the song so much more beautiful. Above all, because they gave you a reason to be. You can't hate that despite the itchy or burning throat.
You want to resolve this dissonance. Yet you're tone deaf.
