Second Supper

There is thing in my throat,
I cough and I hack,
and I clear my schedule
for every dead-beat dad
and long lost survivor
of something
that is offensive right now,
but it still catches;
it still wiggles its way
into the muck,
and it sticks here,
right fucking here,
between the roof
of my mouth and the shit
apologies I swallowed
yesterday, back in the day,
before I tasted anything
that had been seasoned
with honesty.
There is this thing in my throat,
and it swings on the hinges
of my gag reflex,
and I gulp and I breathe,
and I swallow it again.
Over and over.
I swallow it again,
because it keeps crawling
out of my belly and back
up my throat every time
I get used
to the idea of eating anything
other than shame or the ugliness
that has been dished
out and served up.
But the sound,
the glorious full-bodied
retching noises I make
on swallowing that shit,
again, seems to sound
prettier and a little more
appetizing, a hell of a lot
more appealing
than the sound of truth
being spit from my mouth
and the creak of chairs
scraping the floor.
There is this thing in my throat,
and I feed it and it feeds me,
and we’re all fatter now
because of it.

© Nicole Lyons 2018

8 thoughts on “Second Supper

  1. Reblogged this on erichmichaels and commented:
    Second Supper by Nicole Lyons at thelithiumchronicles. The raw imagery and gritty language are phenomenal. It speaks of the indignities we suffer to keep from hearing “the creak of chairs scraping the floor.”

    Like

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