I went into your party
Didn't think anything of your snacks
I ate anything you gave me
But then it came to the cakes

Your chocolate cupcakes were delicious
"To die for"
Devine

I guess my body took it literally.

I choked
You started laughing
"Was it funny?"

I am crying
Throwing up
Scratching til my skin bleeds

You think I'm being dramatic

Can't you see??
Your cupcakes are killing me.

When I am finally able to find my mom I have no time

And my vision is blank

I don't remember the last time I ate a cupcake.
I always throw them up now.

merrily through this world we go
purging in every toilet bowl

There once was a rosy tomato
Who fell for a russet potato,
     And coming together
     In unusual weather,
They created a baby topato.

the
smell
of the
barbecue grill
taunts
my hunger pains
I walk on by
uninvited
with no place
to
go.

I dug a deep hole with no way out,
I lost control there is no doubt.
My mind is ruled by food,
I am not the same who I am being viewed.

I ate or I don’t fell well,
Those are lies I frequently tell.
Check for a toilet before I eat,
Without throwing up I won’t be complete.

No matter how much I eat it has to go,
That is the only way I know.
Dizzy and tired all the time,
But stopping now would be a crime.

Other have it worse I am just weak,
If tell anyone they will think I’m a freak.
Living with a secret isn’t fun,
But damage has already been done.

I eat from a white bowl.
I don’t know where the strawberries come from.

Sometimes Mom quietly cuts them for me
at three in the morning,
when she’s getting ready for work
and I’ve stayed up all night, never explaining why.

Sometimes I eat them with Dad
at a Denny’s near the highway,
after spending the day at a gun show.
They’re fresh, getting away from the smoke and noise.

Sometimes I imagine eating strawberries
with my guardian angel
at no set hour, in no particular place,
because I believe that heaven comes
from strawberries in a white bowl.

We were eating diner
a heartfealt family meal
a red aura asceued throughout
enuced my appeal.

He asked what the meal was called.
I looked and the *** as my mom's voice trailed off,
"Um... meat with sauce"
The deep red chile con nopales
todava existe con todas estas reglas sociales

She softened her toung for colonizer mouths
we were eating our food in her own house
Chile colorado that stained her hands
turned to twisted song that sung a sour dance.

The conversation lasted a few seconds
but to me the thought beckoned
Its call Chile Colorado for it's deep red hue,
like the spilled blood of my ancestors
and I wonder; "What would they do?"

I draw my tortilla through the salsa
pero entre mi corazon algo senti falsa.
Why do we lie by our own words
Its almost like we are
scared to be heard.

The sharp english language hurts like a cut
but my creamy soft spanish rolls of my tounge.
Chile is a Nahuatl word
A representation of a blend of my two cultures

Mestiso, a swirling blend
of my Spanish colonizers
and my Native soul
stuck between two world, a sung song like a oriol

My brown tint skin
like the pews of a church or a sad sung hymn,
they do not hide behind a colonized word
so why should I hide the names of a food
of which with love we feed to you.

They cut, crush, cauterize or tie off the eyestalk
of female prawns and shrimp
to stimulate faster reproduction
   usually without anesthesia

I often wonder the complexity of pain felt
when they flail about helplessly
disoriented and dissevered

Do they     rejoice?  

For their life has a gained greater purpose.

Or do they mourn what once was?

For the following generations will be disease-prone and decline
and suffer
and decay.

Nothing we haven't already done to ourselves admittedly.
We might actually be the only organisms
unable to cohabitate with each other.

We seek God to fear our actions
that are preached as sins.
It keeps us good and honest
Yet our empires and civilizations repeatedly fall
generation after generation
as power is granted to our rulers that partake in
Eyestalk Ablation.

For we worship them over God himself.
It's a good thing we were getting tired of God anyways.

Pancakes are fluffy, soft,
Her cuteness reaches the Sky,
Amongst blooming flowers
A beautiful butterfly.

Waffles are firm, Krispy,
And yet tender is his care,
Love can make a castle
And he is a building square!

Waffles and Pancakes:
Soft and Firm. Fluffy against Crispy?
Yet somehow mixing them isn't risky!
They journey together, hand in hand,
Their love unites the land!

I am your Waffle,
You are my Pancake,
And no matter what,
Our love won't ever shake!

Don’t you ever
eat
out of tradition?
Like,
you are not hungry;
but not loaded either.
Your stomach is just
as numb as your heart.

But you still eat,
because food tastes good;
because they sat you down;
because you ought to;
because you’re used to the feeling.

Even when there is no joy
to the taste;
you eat.

Eat,
eat,
eat.

You did it so often
the action
must have lost all its meaning.

Semantic satiation.