Thanksgiving Black Eye
By Hillary Fink
Her envy and rage fills the room
obvious to everyone who occupies it.
A combination of boos, a few puffs of weed,
and a pill my friend had folded into my hand with an eagerness
that at the time felt like love.
The world that spun around me, for that moment, was my own
I was oblivious for I chose to be.
I brought myself to this place.
The chemicals in my brain over flood with a sense of euphoria
And as her anger rose, so did my serotonin.
As her fist wound back, his steps retreated.
One, and then two, into the darkness.
And him, the center of her universe,
the root of my problem
excluded himself from us both.
Leaving myself, her fist, and my laughter
The next day is Thanksgiving.
And as I sit amongst those giving thanks,
my eye, tender and ripe and illuminating the color of
a freshly picked eggplant,
embodies a greater space at the table than my warm body.
My eye is evidence of my loneliness.
My isolation from the world around me
even more so from myself.
The blueness of my eye is as dark, tender and painful
as my addiction.