39 The Table

E.J.

I don’t want a seat at the table,
I want to shatter it.

I want to break the glass,
Flip the tabletop,
Pull the tablecloth like a rug beneath heavy feet,
Slither my way past whisky tongues,
Pull the daggers from their hands,
And curse the teeth they seethe

I want to watch them burn into glorious ash,
Pray gratefulness into the destruction that surrounds me,
And the vines that follow,
Invasive greenery on unholy land

I want to breathe life into places that demand death,
Wage war on those who refuse to breathe the light
And seek refuge from the sun’s beams

I don’t want a seat at the table,
I want to wither my greys into spaces they’ve been scorned,
Decorate the graves with roses,
And thoughts,
And prayers

Dreaded, not compliant.

Because I refuse to play a part in the old fashioned,
On the rocks, orange peel between my teeth,
Bitter, sunken, drunken mess,
Ribbons around their fingers because
“They know best”

I don’t want a seat at the table, I want to break it