A dinner party where I do not eat. A dinner party where I consume nothing, not even air. A dinner party where I am engulfed by white walls, ceramic and smooth and feathery. A dinner party underwater. A dinner party with a bubble head, a head in a bubble, a head making bubbles, bubbly heads all around me, looking down. A dinner party beneath the crucifix–a big brown wooden phallic-like thing protruding from the center of the velvet room. A dinner party in a sea of muffled voices against my ears
pounding
pounding
pounding.
A dinner party beneath hairy hands, hands hairy holding a maroon book. A dinner party spent reading through the bubble head of me to the gold lettering. A dinner party in half pruned skin, fleshy flimsy me, my flesh flimsy against white dress, my fleshy flimsy white dress against the ceramics against the bubble head beneath the crucifix above the legs of the tub above the velvet and the stained-glass window between the voices and the book and my fingers the same. A dinner party where I am satisfied empty. A dinner party where I am swallowed.