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Red Wine

I don’t even like red wine.

But I understand my participation in the human ritual.

To associate alcohol with the celebration of rites we deem necessary of making us people - though we are asleep.

Red wine is not my flavour. But I’ll use it for adventure, to flavour my food and delight in new tastes.

Today I stood over the stove, sipping red wine.

Staggering as I held onto the glass, like it was such an admirable thing.

As it rendered my experience


The bottle was the first thing is saw, amidst a spiritual attack from this immortal man, crawling all over my apartment.

Three days ago, the man dragged his knife against my tongue. Reminding me to sleep, confirming lack of safety in this lonely menagerie.

The wine set my throat aflame, but if I burn my tongue then perhaps I’ll be freed, and so will the hands wringing my neck

Following behind me while I was my face,

While I fill my water bottle,

While I get my space ready to dream into my sanctuary.

Or will he come back to force me to sleep and drag that same knife across my tongue,

I have noticed he only appears when my soul cannot be found in the menagerie,

And there remains an empty reflection, smiling back at me on the tidal surface of red wine.

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