At The Dining Table.

At The Dining Table.

We wear pretty dresses at the dining table.

On sundays,

we wear pretty dresses,

we harvest sunshine for our smiles,

and we hold our tongues.

Tight.

Behind pastel lips,

at the dining table.

We eat overcooked roast,

and we pretend it is divine.

A succulent delight for mouths as clean as the ocean blue.

We light candles,

and we pretend they are the only fire that wells up in the dining room.

Mom wears her wedding ring,

to pretend she is in love.

Still trying to convince herself that he kisses his knuckles,

before they kiss her cheeks.

The eldest girl,

she wears foundation over black eyes,

cos her boy,

he loves her just like daddy loves mom.

Cos mom still pretends this is love.

Now her girls know no different.

Their son is not here,

hasn’t been home in months.

Hasn’t called in weeks,

mom’s been losing sleep,

but you’d never know.

There’s still a place set for him,

ya know,

just in case he finally comes home.

The youngest girl,

she wears long sleeves,

sitting by the fireplace.

Cos she loves herself,

just the way mom told her to.

And dad puts some steak on her plate,

pretending that she’s gonna eat it.

When they all know she won’t.

Then dad sits back with a whiskey.

Ya know,

“Just one more”.

We wear pretty dresses at the dining table.

On Sundays,

we wear pretty dresses and the sizes are getting small by the day,

won’t stop till it’s a hospital gown or ideally a grave.

On Sundays,

we harvesting sunshine for our smiles,

cos you’d never find any once you step through the doors.

On Sundays,

we hold our tongues.

Tight.

behind pastel lips,

cos the truth is too bitter to swallow.

At the dining table, we wear pretty dresses.

we wear pretty dresses and pretend we are happy.