This body is a dinner party for trauma.
The table is set at the historical cemetery in Tiverton, on animal sanctuary land.
This way no one can ever make the overdue guests leave.
They finished eating many years ago, but won’t take the hint.
I’m tired of entertaining so many needy guests at once.
Picking up their dropped napkins from the floor, refilling their wine.
They are so amused by each other’s presence at the table and won’t stop chattering.
How long have you known her?
How long will you stay?
Oh yes, I don’t have anywhere to go after.
And this wine is very good.
I take short breaks in the bathroom, sure to lock the door.
In the mirror I notice mascara running down both cheeks in jest.
I don’t remember putting it on.
I never put it on.
My fancy sequined dress is a fine distraction from my puffy eyes pleading with ghosts.
We are too fresh for this.
My emotions spilling everywhere, hot and leaking from the pot.
They stink, a vessel still dank, 3 days knocking empty against the dock.
Fish already sold and digested in children’s bellies.
That cigarette smell that lives on in a used car 10 years later.
Old emotions bubbling to the surface and begging for affection,
a kiss on the cheek, then a pat on the head.
All I want is to call you, tell you how my heart bleeds without a stopper.
Ask you to drive an hour to wrap your arms around my thick waist.
Tired sadness, the metal grating my insides into pulp.
The weight I’ve been carrying all these years ready to be released with a bite.
Aimee Nicole is a queer poet currently residing in Rhode Island. She holds a BFA in Creative Writing from Roger Williams University and has been published by the Red Booth Review, The Nonconformist, and Voice of Eve, among others. For fun, she enjoys attending roller derby bouts and trying desperately to win at drag bingo.