I would say that I’ve been trying to keep my emotions bottled up inside, but that brings to mind bizarre imagery of petulant toddlers suckling on Avent labelled vodka tonic. Jars seem more appropriate somehow. Something to “can” and store away in a cupboard, collecting dust in the dark safety of an over-stacked shelf. Lost somewhere amidst Campbell’s this, Del Monte’s that, and the obligatory ramen noodles; they complete the picture of the average, forgotten pantry.
They can never be so simply stored though. Try as I might to seal them up and stack them nice and neat, one topples over and the whole stack crumples like a house of cards, just an ordinary cliché. An inevitable mess drips down through the white-coated wires. The jars squish and ooze, covering my hands in jelly undone. I swat at gnats swarming in my vision, crossing my eyes, and smearing my makeup. Despite my attempts at keeping things grown up, mature, a little girl in a yellow raincoat and hat tips salt down onto my spilled emotions. She lay there on the middle shelf, mocking me from where I inadvertently knocked her down.
Slowly, deliberately, I step back from the pantry. I brush my salty jam hands over my closed eyelids and sigh. This will never do. I leave the remaining jars where they lay scattered on the floor and sit at my desk. Words swim across a backlit screen at my fingertips. Thoughts are suddenly carried away into the world of known and unknown intentions. A jar of another sort is being tested.
-This comes from a smidgeon of truth, mingled with the influence of a bit of Plath, and sprinkled over with a little whimsy.