I Can't Eat Dinner Alone

I can’t eat dinner alone.

What I mean by alone is simply that I cannot eat dinner idly

If I eat dinner by itself and without anything for my hands to touch, hold, see or do, I sort of lose myself.

I know I’m supposed to be consumed with consuming for myself, but I simply can’t do that.

I lose my sense of ground and I am no longer grounded.

I lose my sense of gravity and I am the flightless bird in my bowl.

I lose my hands as they walk away from me: my index finger waltzing off with my mind and my middle finger flipping around with my morals, the rest of my fingers curled up like my feelings.

I play around with my spoon dancing around my responsibilities and reality.

The rice dances around as well, slightly soggy, and slightly warm because I know my heart is the same - turned into mush at every second thing to cross my path and I quickly realize that I can’t consume all of it.

The bowl holds everything that I have not touched, because I am sitting here idly, without something for my hands to touch, hold, see or do.

I can’t eat dinner alone.

I should add anymore, because you’ve been subtracted from my life and I simply cannot eat alone anymore.

But I’ve learned that I cannot eat dinner my myself, because I’m alone.

So I try to fill this empty space in my hands with the dancing of my spoon and the moonwalk of my fingers, and the swirl of you in my head.

I lose myself and I lose my dinner too soon after.

I can’t vomit alone.

My hands grip the toilet bowl, trying to grip for my dear life, trying to hold onto what is left of my personality after the fabrications of designer attitudes and watches that don’t tell time, or tell the time too late are stripped from my skeleton of mistakes.

I consume, only to release.

I understand that I am only the fruit of local trees, that is why I cannot eat alone.

I eat alone and it makes me see the lack of fruit in me, and I lose myself in the toilet bowl I am.

I am nauseous at the person I am.

I am nauseous at the thought of me.

The thought of me makes me puke.

This is why I cannot eat dinner alone.



- Puke Enthusiast

This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741