Taunting.

Having you in my life is making me miserable,
a word I often feel too privileged to throw around.
Like an unwelcome house guest, you dominate every
conversation, carelessly touring through dimly lit halls and
pointing out all the mundane flaws in the renovations;
my mind is a color palette you reject, your lips distended,
offended at such offerings. Like a wild stallion, you knock me
down and step on my spine. I have no will to fight you.
What's left of this body is bruised plaster. No one notices
my fall or the time in between the next one, my echo not
severe enough to warrant more than a quick, dubious glance.

You follow me everywhere - and to not appear as an
inattentive host, I begrudgingly indulge in your act,
making sure you don't wander too far from sight.
You ask the most cruel questions, demanding
succinct answers as to why the walls are unfinished
and why my brain matter seems to be scattered in the
center of abstract paintings. I frantically search for an
exit to the interrogations, and you placate me,
suggesting that we should be seated for dinner,
requesting your place at the head of my table.

I seat you wordlessly, placing a set of rustic knives
in front of your plate. I catch you frothing at the mouth
as you choose the carving knife with the best feel,
a hog's head unceremoniously taking up the majority
of space, watching my dignity play the part of a fool.

You make me silently resentful, eagerness bubbling
below your mouth. I refrain from dashing to the washroom,
retching into the sink and pulling out fistfuls of hair.
Sometimes I wish I could un-stitch my scalp and
suffocate you with it, but you would call that a victory.

It's not until dusk that I realize there are no remnants of you.
The floors are wiped clean, the embers long gone.
I comb through the house like it's not my own, searching for
signs of your madness, though it mirrors so much of my own.

The only mess remaining is on the table, utensils bent
and now opaque, crumbs pitted in the surface like meteorites.

I grab a bin to dispose of the hog carcass and nearly gag
at the aftermath. The massacre is a disgrace. I clench my jaw
in disgust at the fingerprints of grease and flesh and rot and fat.
It's only after I close my eyes, breathe, and reopen them that I
see the wild hog staring back, unslaughtered, almond-eyed,
squealing on top of the table. Spiteful. Ravenous.

And I know, this is just one of many nights.

You'll visit me again, and one of us will not make it back in time.