My soul is not something
you can portion into pieces.

I refuse to be cut up with kitchen knives,
a meal ready for you to devour.
What am I to you?
But a quick snack,
but a cheap bite?

No, I refuse.

I refuse to be your side dish
any longer.

You've bitten off
more than your small mind
can chew.

And now you will choke
and spit it out.

You get my scraps now,
and have the nerve to complain.

So I stopped feeding you
pieces of myself
anymore.

I have become a complete meal
once
more.