Ginger Snaps

The first family, the rarely seen,


sitting in the mucky room,


timid laughter, testing the waters,


dinner plates on propped knees,


a hunger too vast for the table.
Hidden anger flashing, barely contained annoyance.
"I have a good hairline." Joke from a shining skull.
"You don't have a hairline" Need to be right, be better.
"In ten years you won't have a waistline."
Hate hidden in play.
Easy judgements cling to me, heavy.
The house smells like cookies, and everyone forgets.
The rarely seen, the early go,
dinner cut short by pie, the rarely seen leave
until the next time the calendar commands them to
acknowlege us.
Merry Christmas.

The always seen, blades spinning.
Hate revealed and blood running,
corners occupied, food rotting already.
A gray aura drowns us all, rain in our eyes
uncertainty in our hearts.
There is no laughter,
only hushed approved conversation.
No uneasy topics to ruin this meal.
We must be nice, must be family, must pretend.
Electricity is an event, and sparks fly as we pass the salt.
Disdain and deviled eggs fill us up.
Ginger floods my veins.
We all hate each other, those we call mother, sister.
No one.
I eat my cookies. Fuck you all.
Through my ginger snap, a crumbling window.
I see who we used to be,
we can't all get through this cookie to the past,
so with a swift bite I destroy it.
We'll hate each other and be together, forever.
Happy Thanksgiving.