the one who gets under my skin
is needy, lays back,
waiting to be fed;
but what I put on the plate
will never be enough:
it’s too late, too meagre,
too tasteless, too wrong.
the most sumptuous feast
will never sate
the appetite that devours;
bones are sucked dry
teeth are picked
a sneer that reeks of menace
mocks my begging bowl
as I wait for a tiny morsel
of gratitude.
I won’t stop cooking for good
but I have to stop buttering you up
with dishes I don’t even like,
puddings far too fancy
mains that betray their true meat,
and sides that sell their soul.
I have to accept, finally,
that even the finest recipe
made to your exacting order
will leave me tasting your bile.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
