Dinner Table

Standard

Hands, fused to the table before me.

We sit, eye-to-eye, in this debacle of a world that we call home.

Across that table, you are burning

Under the scrutiny of eyes that cut souls like diamonds.

I remain in front of you, an open wound.

You wrapped my soul in bandages,

Only to find blood trailing in rivers across the table.

It is this very space, this very seat

That holds my destiny.

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