by Maria Purpura
It burns like acid
and you’re not sure whether it’s the food
or the company.
She goes on about life and these
amazing things happening right now.
Her plate is full.
Talking herself hoarse,
she chews words with the
few bites she ingests.
In order to distract myself
from the burning desire to have
similar stories, beautiful men
showing me interest, a likewise wallet
stacked thick with crisp bills,
I shove bite after bite after
bite of food in my mouth.
Nodding occasionally, as if
immensely happy for her
fortune, ignoring the gnawing
hunger
to live like she has.
The food is bland, tastes empty
as my stomach fills and
my waistband tightens
around my hips,
but it gives me a reason
to stay silent, to weakly
smile, to take another
sip of water so I don’t
choke.
IfeellikeI’mchoking
I should be happy for her;
yet I bite my tongue,
remembering my mother’s words:
If you have nothing nice to say
say nothing at all.
She pays for the check
and declines a takeout box,
thanking me for my listening skills.
I forget to tell her that I got home safe
and wear a green shirt to bed that night.