Dear Whoever Cut the Turkey,
Pass the knife. Let me take it into the bathroom and bleed out on the floor while The Poet brushes his teeth with the door open. An invitation. He too thrives on complication and grief. He is a man who speaks the language I speak and it is shrill.
Birdcage.
I imagine him mopping up my blood and keeping it over his door like a prized heirloom.
Maybe it is the wine.
I can feel The Man I Love burning in the next room like a house awake. I would approach him, but I drown in the quaking hall where a crowd of blurry faces erupt in laughter and disdain. Were the pies always too heavy for my shaking hands?
None of us can sober our pace.
Nothing is simple in a flesh complex.
Language hangs herself.
It is all fucking gibberish.
There is a tension in the air I cannot distinguish. It is sexual. It is hostile. It is cruel.
Happy Thanksgiving.
I just want to know
What I already know
You're thinking. [But you need time to process, and I am okay with that.]
I feel you uncomfortably.
Did you know I can read your mind?
I do.
Like some satanic medium that may be of God. But I can't really tell sometimes. And it terrifies me.
Dear Whoever Cut the Turkey,
Pass the knife.
