Too Much Iron in the Sink

I bite my tongue and my tongue bites back.

Expletives tumble, stumble out of these dry, old lips.

I listen keenly, but when I do I still hear dumb.

No one was prepared for my novel utterances. 

They think they see me, but I’m invisible.

Made of Scotch tape and bubble wrap, I’m hardly any prize.

I once stuck to the corner of the dining room table,

shortly after Christmas Eve when the gifts were all wrapped.

I couldn't move for the better part of two hours,

standing in silence on the wooden corner, like a block of ice.

Best get to making use of my purpose, which is not

to entertain, but to fill in the holes my mother couldn’t process.

I spit out blood that tastes like metal.

Too much iron in the sink.