And you, with your twenty-year-old,
come hither face, shimmering
with the light of the sun,
and a life that has yet to be lived.
Look at you, unmarked and perfect,
recycling the pretty words that you have eaten,
and the lovely ideas of all the tragedies
that you have never even tasted.
I don’t like the way you keep
trying to force them down my throat,
as if choking on your nothing
could possibly cleanse me
of the suffering I have swallowed.
Darling, I see you,
all twenty years of you,
and I will invite you to my table,
set the prettiest place for you
to come back to me,
after you have gagged on life,
wiped your mouth,
and asked for a second fucking helping.
© Nicole Lyons 2017