The Chosen

The lump in my throat feels like an anchor now

With its heavy edges drowning me in your waters.

Two hours ago, you told me you were proud,

But we are once again back at cursing my father.

I did not mean to say that you two are alike,

I did not even mean to utter a syllable.

Now you are cussing at the cutlery, picking a fight,

Calling me cold and calling me cynical.

You brought me chamomile tea to make it better,

And we drank in silence as you calmed down.

It was way too hot and a little too bitter,

But you have already robbed me of my ivory crown –

So, I drank as I tried to make my heart slow a bit,

Wondering about why the house was so damn quiet.

I looked at you, but you just told me to sit.

“Aren’t you done with planning your riots?”

The room started spinning as my throat ached,

And I begged for water as you washed the cups.

So serene and steady, you knew the stakes.

You ensured that I suffer, then called the cops.

The lump in my throat feels like an anchor again

With its heavy edges drowning me in your poison.

I hope it gets cured by the graveyard rain,

And I hope I was the last to ever be chosen.

-Jackie