Sunday, July 30, 2017

Dinner


I have a new life. I say “maybe in this life, I’m the only one who comes to dinner.”

There was this one time I had dinner with The Queen , who brought Her King. Her hair was full of baby birds that demanded to be fed and she would feed herself a fork of pasta and flavored tofu and slip her well manicured fingers into her purse where she had a collection of worms, the kind you find in the garden when you are pulling out the weeds. She would feed them to the baby birds in her hair.

“They’re my babies” said the childless woman: some blamed her rigidity, some blamed her husband’s ability to perform.

“They’re her babies,” he said, and smiled as if it was the most grotesque act that could ever be performed. I never once wondered, until I left the table, where all the bird poop went.

I had dinner once with the daughter of my soul. We sat at a long table with each place setting set meticulously, vanilla candles burning in the day light. She was so far away that I saw more clouds than I did of her. We talked words that could only be mumbled in the centre of a dream and I tried to write her poetry but my hands were broken and I tried to show her love, all the emotion did was become trapped inside my heart.



I became stressed and woke up ready to go back to sleep and dream a better life. But the alarm clock was going off and I needed to start my day after the queen with the birds. The daughter I fell though the clouds for, and woke up, and lost.

Perhaps I’m the only one who really came to breakfast that morning. Perhaps I’m the only one who sat beside me and talked to me through the night.


“There, there darling,” I say, “you’ll be ok, no one will understand your Prozac induced sleep, so deal with it now. Before you have to step outside the door into a world of real people who hear the words you say and take them to mean something else. 


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