my chest feels like ashes
neatly divided into even meatloaf slices
by someone with ocd and a pair of calipers
then equally anal retentively, applying questionable sums of butter upon each slice-
...left to sit out on the dim-lit dinner table where everyone will stare at in part-fear, part-disgust, part-acceptance in awkward silence because none of it was atrocious enough to verbally detest- and none of it was tolerable enough to go as far to reach out a hand, break the invisible ring of vison- created by the lack of visible reaction- and communicate in action that "I for one, am anticipating what this will taste like" and so the table remains unbroken and everyone will remain sitting straight and (e)motionless- hung in pre-dinner limbo; all this bathed in a dis-eased light of lime yellow and gray. little dashes of red in between. and feeling too conscious, too unnatural to say it without comedy, ill say under my breath, "come por favor". but of course.

it was only in my head.


and hopefully, ill grow up