it’s not a turkey’s fault

when i eat

this meal, i’m

supposed to be

thankful.

when i eat

this meal, all

i feel is i can’t breathe—i—

i can’t—i can’t breathe, i—

as he sits beside me, i feel

this feeling subside. one

must breathe, after all.

i must, to survive (him).

each bite is

torture. each movement is

calculated, tense,

pent-up energy. but i

have to appear

relaxed. fine. okay. it’s

what i have to do (to)

(survive). he watches me eat.

i feel like i could die, i think, stuffing

down a bite of turkey. i hate it, so much.

it doesn’t even taste awful—just—i—i—

i can’t stand it—i—i can’t—

he makes me take some of the cranberry sauce.

it’s sour. the stuffing eases it, some, but i

have to mask the expression of me about

to throw up from the texture and i

have to swallow this bite hard. i have

to keep it down. he makes me eat

the slimy green beans. there’s

weird stuff on them, making them

too salty. they’re a bit limp. they fall

apart beneath my fork. i shovel them

into my mouth. he watches me eat. once

all this is done, i take a long, long, long

drink of water. i turn to that

buttered roll on my plate, and i

savor each bite. when i ask for another, he

says, “after some more turkey and green”

“beans, maybe some more stuffing, too,”

“and if you’re still hungry, then sure.” i say

nevermind. i have to wait until

everyone else is done eating

to be excused. he

watches

me

sit

there. he’s smiling wide.