Christmas dinners suck (probably not so a satire)

The candle lights are flickering
with the eyesockets in delight
I wonder if they’re whispering
or if the whips are in my mind

Family dinners never turned out
the way I thought they should be
I guess I knew a shout
could be given out so subtly.

And maybe that twelve year old dressed up kid
with her head in the clouds
will go out and find herself to get hit
by a few guns to send her south

I don’t remember if it was December
when I figured out Christmas dinners suck
there was no uncle as the breadwinner
but the women at the table were the only ones to get up.

And the aprons were for skirts unbuttoned, while the belts
were for all of the males who claimed men
and the people all together decided they would melt
while I sat there and refused to give in

The candles start melting out their brains
but I don’t think that’s so hard
And I don’t know what type of presents
live when we’re all dying of lard

stuck in our breasts
and tipping meat out of our hats
like we’re murderous types of zombies,
not grave-yard diggers.

No we fight all of the satires
with more responses
and maybe that’s why I still go to lunch,
because I know how to fight the binges

of words and “slut” and “Bitch” and “prick”
I hear almost every day,
except for every other day almost,
when I feel the arm link around
my shoulders,
and pray for that guy to show up
and push them all away.

But he probably wouldn’t anyway.

Christmas dinners with candles burning in eyes
reminded me a million fucking times
that blood may be thicker than water,
that just means it’s more nutritious going down.

down, down.

Way down.