Cutting up pink paper. It crumbles between my fingers. I throw its balled up crinkly form into a used bowl. Stomach balled up. At the table. Sickly light, illuminating more than the table. Half eaten lamb, bones sticking up. The paper rips in tune to the stifling hurried frantic talking. Choking sobs, I am as strangled as the bound up meat. Lid on the cream. Lid on the situation. Please let it end, I would wish the ground would swallow me up, holding my crystal wine glass, but it already has. Foundations of my life have cracked and crumbled. Balled up like the pink paper roses I made, tossed into the used bowl. Tossing them like the feelings I wish would be torn off the bone like new years day lamb. Tossing them into the bin and watching as they scatter away from each other forever.

KG