A normal dinnertime conversation,

bland and yearning for color,

hangs heavy in the air,

gaining weight with each word,

threatening to plummet to the ground.

My mother speaks of homework,

my father complains about the dog,

I sit in perpetual silence,

secrets at the tip of my tongue.

They look through me,

eyes resting on the daughter they think they know.

For the fifteenth time in a week,

I tell them I have a good friend,

inside I shout "girlfriend."

I tell them of our closeness,

my heart screams of "devotion."

They smile and blindly acknowledge half-truths,

unaware of a deeper meaning,

unable because I prevent them.

I yearn to tell them who I am,

but instead I blurt,

"How 'bout those Yankees?"