This is old

Thanksgiving Dinner I feel like I'm all spit and fire but that fire will burn out someday and then I'll just be a pool of saliva on the dirty ground. You lift your fork from your plate and stare into my face with a curious, scientific look in your eye and stab between my ribs, twist and crunch against the bones, fork tines pulling and ripping flesh. It hurts. Especially when you stop suddenly, and go back to eating your dinner like nothing has happened, I sit with blood dripping from my chest, wincing as I try to pull air into my punctured lung, a slight bubbling, rasping sound coming with each attempted breath. I watch you chew and sip so meticulously.. I hope you choke.