“We’re only here because we love you.”
I come home from the grocery store to find my living room filled with family and friends. It smells like cake. But it’s not my birthday.
“Sit down.”
I would rather stand. In case I have to run. What is this about? Everyone looks so serious. Is someone dying?
“We’re all worried about you.”
What the hell? I’m just fine. I don’t do drugs. I drink a little. I guess I’ve gained some weight. But that doesn’t seem like a good enough reason for whatever is going on here.
“It’s about your poetry.”
What?
“It’s gotten a bit dark.”
My poetry?
“And really strange. You used to write heartwarming kidlit. We loved it. It made people happy. But now you write poems with titles like ‘Frostbit Penis’ and ‘Death of a Baby Robin.’”
It’s called self-expression.
“We think you need to try to write some sweet stories again. We would feel more comfortable.”
Maybe it’s not about you.
“We know this isn’t really who you are.”
Maybe it is.
“We’re so glad you understand where we’re coming from. We just love you and want you to be happy.”
Actually, I am happy. Seems to be you all who are upset.
“So we’ll head out now. Thanks for understanding. Remember we just want what’s best for you.”
And who baked a fucking cake? I slice a piece, open my laptop and start to write a poem titled Beautiful Maggots.
Trista Wilson currently lives in Wichita, Kansas with her husband and two lovable, naughty dogs. She spends her time these days writing, drinking too much ice-coffee and seeing how giant the weeds in her garden can grow.
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