Slide your drink across the table, child.
Talk through a cigarette
hanging off of your chapped,
and faded lips.
Eat with your hands,
you frail beast,
while whiskey seeps
into the unpolished wood flooring.
Animalistic brutality;
it is your nature,
it is not mine.
So, while you sit here,
and throw crude punches with your slurred words,
from across this forsaken, cold room,
I will twirl my fork,
and I will sip my wine.
My lipstick,
as red and as potent as your face,
will go unsmudged.
By Hanna Garber
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