To you, I must be the vegetables your mother told you to eat at the dinner table.
You push me to the side even though you know I'm good for you.
Even though you know your body needs me running through your veins.
You spoon me,
Then when the coast is clear you put me down & pick up something more appetizing on your plate.
I'm just there.
You scrape me to the side & spread me apart to make it look as though you've taken more of me than you actually have.
To give the illusion of health.
An illusion that you're doing what you're supposed to be doing.
But I know better.
I know because I'm the one sitting on your plate, getting cold.
While you consume all that looks & taste better than me,
I go to waste.