The Table

Stephanie Bennett-Henry brings wounds and such to a table.

Stephanie Bennett-Henry

I don’t think you’re ready

for all I bring to the table

and the days when I show up

empty handed, bloodied knees,

with nothing more than

the broken parts of me.

The leftovers don’t always expire

when they are living, breathing

wounds that never heal.

I will serve those so many fucking times,

you will be stuffed full

and sick of trying to chew up

the tantrums, the overly dramatic

parts of me that never stop kicking.

Then the day will come

when you just refuse to swallow

the giving up of me,

the stubborn girl who lives here

sometimes doesn’t give in,

until you do first

and I can say it’s all your fault.

Then I’ll talk about how you left

the table before me

and I never got the chance

to serve you every course,

so you don’t know me at all.

I’ll say I was strong

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