And I could slit my wrist with my steak knife at dinner, and you'd only move to save that fucking tablecloth.

'I can't afford to keep having that damn thing cleaned…'

and in the time it took for me to make my decision and write out my letters, you'd have made a masterpiece out of the same leftovers that I didn't eat last night.

'I'm not going to keep calling you-your food is getting cold.'

And in the time it took for me to drag myself downstairs and pull out my chair, a chill like rigor mortis would have overcome the plate, something not even artificial preservatives could prevent.

'So what, you're not hungry again? You're not eating again?'

And in the time it would have taken me to tell you to shut the fuck up, tell you that you don't know anything, I've grabbed the knife from your fat, stupid fingers and brought it down my arm.

'What the fuck is wrong with you?!'

And in the time it takes to say 'nothing, anymore…' you've pulled away that fucking tablecloth, muttering something about my allowance and dry-cleaning bills.

'Wash your fucking hands and finish your dinner.'