iron block
there are those days you wake up with a heavy block of iron on your neck. no glue, no sweat. a block of iron, pure, resting on your neck. beyond all that screaming and anger and those arguments that fed you before dinner, no, it wasn’t your choice to be there, but that round table, that blinding white light, those forks and knives, the echo of the walls around you, an unloved man pouring his dissatisfaction down your throat, on top of some televised war, you imagine, you imagine the hands of your grandmother. such a choking silence for a few seconds, no sweat, nothing in between, your skin right beneath an ice-cold block of iron. i hate dinner tables, i hate dinner tables, you think to yourself.