The American Meal

My stomach rises up in me.
Bile threatens to release
along with traces of last night's dinner.

I've not even had breakfast.
Not one egg, or a ham slice.
Not toast.

Rising up from my covers with sleep in my eyes, I read the news and bear witness.

Unbeknownst to me, I'd already had my daily heaping plate of Truth.

The Truth that I don't feel safe
That I should not feel safe.
That I could not feel safe again.
Safety is no ones privilege
and if someone tells you differently
it's a Lie.

The Lie is that the wounds are healed
The Lie is that free speech is greater than hate.
The Lie is that American blood doesn't matter to us as much as we say.
The Lie is that this meal is nutritious.

I have had my daily fill of the
American meal.
The true Western diet.
It makes you feel hazy and nauseous.
It's sour and bitter and two hundred years
Stale.

The diet of protests for Protein.
Breaking News coverage as
our mid-day snack.
Seedy rhetoric as our Potassium
and hate as our Water Source.

The Truth is
the taste has never gone away.
We can't wash our mouths and expect not to eat again.

The Truth is, nobody knows why we eat of the forbidden fruit.

Side effects of exhaustion and pain and anxiety and fear and loathing and more and more plates of Truth.

I can't tell myself that it's mashed potatoes anymore. Or a decadent chocolate cake. Or a cheeseburger with extra cheese, hold the pickles.

It tastes familiar and it's hate and we know it well.
A red mess, impossible to make out.
The lunchroom treat of our childhood.
And the more you eat
The more it tastes like nothing at all.

But still, we eat- inhale- our American meal.