I do not eat at my kitchen table
For the fear that I will have to face
Myself in the warmth of the rising
Sun.
It has always been easier to fold
Myself into paper thin molds than to
Admit to myself the blood in my veins
And on my hands.
I lay with myself in the ominous,
Starless night
Breaking my bones and screaming
Until my throat is raw and when I
Awake, I am always let alone with
The opposite side of the bed left in a
Tumbled mess, like a lover who had
Vanished once I'd fallen asleep.
Another person that had their use of
Me and made me appear to be a
Crime scene.
Some nights I feel like I have
Swallowed mouthfuls of gasoline and
Lit a match on my tongue.
Those burning, destructive feelings
In the pit of my stomach that haunt
My mind in the silent night when I am
Vulnerable.
I do not eat at my kitchen table
For the fear that I will have to face
Myself in the chill of the setting sun
And recognize how that must resemble
My tired eyes.
