zipper in a red garment

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.