the first spoonful
was the most bitter in taste
but least bitter in memory.
the second, however,
tasted like mother's rejection,
and the third
like father's absence.
I paused debating another.

gulp

another spoonful,
and another for even questioning myself.
I saw your face in the sixth.
with a knot in my chest,
I saw you turn and leave,
trampling my forlorn heart.

but the seventh spoonful
made me numb,
to all the pain of thoughts prior.
and with the eighth
I felt like I was free.
with the ninth spoonful,
I closed my eyes
and was.