breathe in the smell of meat cooking in the morning and
hoping it's not for me because
my stomach is a delicate beast,
it only feasts on things worth feasting
while it searches for something to fill the cavernous black hole
left by one-too-many blows and one-too-many hearts sinking
and one other heart constantly beating above it, my poor
mother must know, she must.
know that

I don't sleep through meals for nothing and the smell
on my breath isn't alcohol or cigarettes it's my own insides
pouring themselves out because I can't muster up
anything
but *****
anymore and

I don't
want
to