What’s wrong? Can’t you stomach the meat of my raw words?
Why should I melt into pretty poetry
just to make myself heard?
Find different herbs to soften delivery,
heat them on the slow cooker,
turn down the temperature to a simmer,
my heart charred with this slow burner
till I feel as alive as a used piece of furniture,
one that supports the curvature
of your collapsing backbone
as you sink me ever deeper
into your salt and pepper flavours
and I’m sick of how your cooking tastes.
When I force down each mouthful
I’m chewing on hate
and this is too late to salvage,
no amount of running under the cold tap
would ever turn these ingredients back
into their natural state.
Yet here I am, and here I’ve fucking been,
I wait and wait for the texture to change,
trying to sieve through the mush in my brain
whilst I choke on this hate
that’s now starved of patience
from watching you carefully decorate this opera cake.
Repeated layer after layer
and I’m placed in the centre,
a showcase for the shop window display
and how much staying here do you expect me to take?
Your tongue spins sugar lies
made to sound like appreciation
but you’re a self-obsessed chef
dressing deconstructed plates with destruction,
with your rotting food and garlic breath.
You should have learned to savour this
but instead it’s death by leftovers.