“At the Kitchen Table”

They sit and recount

Petty details

Stainless steel scraping across

White porcelain

Tearing apart a single day

Like they tear at the flightless bird

That is dinner

Their false laughter bubbles on the edge

Of something else, something

Waiting on the periphery

Hungry for a single word to ignite

Its anger

They sit with the pretense

Of being normal

But they are only fooling themselves

I should know

I am the one

That carries their scraps

And their weighted silences

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