Sitting next to Casey Collins

The clinking of wine glasses echoing miserably in the air
Restaurant noises that will ring in my ears long after you’re gone
Red lipstick stained teeth gasping to be released from their chapped lip prisons
I hold on for dear life to the hand underneath my table
Although, I’m not really sure whose it is anymore.

Finally the waiter arrives, placing down plates of human flesh
Rubbery skin with pimples and pores stares up at me
The sockets and nostrils and mouth have been stuffed with basil
But the eyebrows haven’t even been removed!
The hand under the table lets go to pour sugar on his face like a pancake.

Casey turns to me and whispers, oh so gently,
‘Are you going to eat that?’

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