When they tell you through
The television that
You are still not quite enough
I stew my own tender meats inside me
I watch as you preserve yours
To be devoured in private
Your eyes are kitchen windows
I am looking up at you
from inside the pot
When you ask
What’s getting to me
I become a soup kitchen
Ask you to taste it in front of me
Does it need more salt?
The anger makes a fine marinade
It often spoils the whole batch
Emotion will do that
Dilute the point
Onlookers eat me up
Leave me with only broth.
South Broadway Ghost Society 