He wants me to eat his words
raw
without salt and pepper
and those expired condiments sitting on the shelf
without the sear and sauté
that I’ve grown accustomed to,
instead serving me something more tartare,
more like sushi on a platter.
He thinks I can heal
from hearing his pierced rantings
reading between the lines
within crimson margins
his carnivorous syllables,
his bouts with doubt
as if I don’t have enough mental illness on my own plate.
I suppose I’ve learned to hide it well.
© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.
