I am not a conversationalist
It’s been one long lie
Both here and outside my ribcage
At a special witching hour, I can pluck and jitter
Until I’m blue in the face
Which you’d recognize
If you looked from underneath your own bones
Once in a while.
How darling it is, how pervasive
The thought of myself as perched on
Top of a sofa, feet on the cushions
Scarred butcher block of a kitchen counter
Where thyme and orange peels were chopped
And made into syrup
Leaving stains in the wood
For no one to notice but me, eyes down
Searching for the next line in my throat
Ready to shout
Hoping shards of bone, the pointed ends of ribs
Will stop stinging my lungs
After this custom cocktail confection:
An Old Fashioned for the unfashioned.
I’m not your conversationalist, I’m not
Your friends’ friend
I’m not even mine.
It’s been the longest lie, and I can’t put it on the block now
Some things stain without ever having been cut.