Literary Pixie

By Victoria Lynne McCoy

We were there for my birthday dinner, but you
were the main event. I prepared to kneel before you
like ritual, there in the vaguely safari-themed
suburban chain. The anonymity of Anytown I needed

with the false promise of adventure
I craved. You were a confession I bore in secret
so no one could take the cold blessing of you away.
It began with a baptism of ice water—

glass after glass, whatever I could choke down. An excuse
to leave the table, a soft place in my belly
for the shame to land. Then, alone, a communion
of apple cider vinegar charring the length of my throat,

so that any body of sustenance I’d laid to my tongue
couldn’t fasten itself to me—at least that was the claim
the anonymous girls on the blog had made.
Finally ready, I opened my mouth, shoved my fingers down

like a desperate prayer. First came the water, and the water,
then the chicken stripped of skin on a river of more
unholy water, until the bed of green lettuce shreds
signaled the end. I offered you everything

I had in me. And thank god,
you are no god. There was no one
in that dim stall to hear me
sacrifice myself

from myself. No,
I’ve given up my faith
that self-hatred could change me,

could bring to light the bones
I thought necessary to brandish
to be deemed worthy. No,

I don’t care how brightly
you once shone. I refuse
to miss you.

This piece is from The Feminist Toilet #3. To return to the table of contents, click here.