I made some soup.
But it’s not for you.
It’s for me.
I don’t want you to change it.
It’s my soup.
Some people want to add some basil or maybe a little oregano.
But it’s my soup.
Some people think it’s too salty.
One person thought it’s too sweet.
But I told ‘em
f--k you.
I won’t change a thing.
It’s my soup.
Someone even tried to stir the ***
I grabbed the ladle
and bopped him on the head
I told him it was my soup.
Someone told me to turn up the heat
For what reason?
It’s a perfect temperature.
Someone else told me to turn down the heat.
I told him that would make it too cold.
It’s my soup.
Someone even told me I had to take some ingredients out.
But I love it the way it is.
It’s my soup.
Someone even tried to take a sip
The nerve!
It’s my soup.
Make your own.
Someone said I overcooked it.
I told her to leave me alone.
I like the smokey flavor.
To my horror, someone even tried to throw it out.
I grabbed the *** and put it back on the stove
Where it belongs.
This is my soup.
This soup…
**is my life.

A tightening black dress to caress her every curve
A seat at the dinner table put on reserve
Pearls that choke the circumference of her neck
Her visage looking eerie and perplexed
The cuisine before her: A delicious French dish
Conversation at dinner was distinguished
But she was lost in a pollutant of words
Couldn’t speak; her tongue placed backwards
She stared intently at the knife near the goblet
She placed it at her throat, sliced it and bled
She bled and her blood oozed onto her filet mignon
The women at the table looked away & wore chignons
One guest requested to try the red sauce on her grub
It wasn’t red sauce; it wasn’t. It was fresh, red blood.
Another guest gaped at her red stained pearls
It wasn’t jewelry imported from Spain; it was blood.
The last drop of blood soaked her dinner
One guest commented on her figure, she’s getting thinner.
She was gone. Her head dropped into her French cuisine.
Guests resumed their talk; **the blood still unseen.