Glue

Family. Friends.
Stuffed like pigs
gathered around the dinner table
like sardines in a hot, smelly can.
Pretend they tell me,
pretend you're normal for once.
Of course no one wants to have
the crazy girl ruin their perfect dinner.
She should be locked up. 
They should have thrown away the key.

The turkey is stuffed with all the
angry, selfish thoughts and insults
that hover just above the table
like a suffocating smog;
are caught in our throats for the sake of peace.
Malice is tucked in every corner,
swept under the carpet.
We are a happy family.

Dried corn hangs on the door.
The shell breaks when I hold it in my hand,
my shell stays intact.
The husk sounds like crumpling paper,
discarded and forgotten on the ground.
There are chew marks on the bottom,
gnawed at to reach the sweet interior.
The kernels are smooth, glued together
for Thanksgiving. 

We are glued together for Thanksgiving.
I am glued together for life,
bits and pieces breaking off
littering this "perfect" family.