my hands are covered in blood from the raw ribs i just threw in the crock pot. don’t cry over spilt milk a man in the family room says from inside the television screen, as the unsucked dairy from the bottom of my cereal bowl drips down the kitchen drain. he reminds me there is never enough, and as he talks about evidence i think about my mom when she deguts the turkey every thanksgiving. i surrender skin cells to scrub the meat juice crusted in the beds of my nails, and i think: surely i would rather have blood between my legs and dirt under my nails, than blood under my nails and dirt between my legs. i will go to bed tonight feeling swollen. my belly has ballooned and tomorrow, when i write this, i fear my buttons will come undone and my zipper will yield to the gorge that is me, simply because i feel like i am taking up too much space.