so you
tell me off
&
force me
not to eat
while you munch on your snacks
in front of my face
wow.

Word spaghetti, thin lies that twist and tease
studded with tiny meatballs of truth
covered in a thick sauce of deception
and served with too much cheese

Cupboards filling up
with stuff we can’t touch
like industrial sacks of dry roasted peanuts
and biscuits for cheese, specifically.
Seems this season of excess
begins with an interminable exercise in restraint,
where even one mince pie is missed.

Cookies are bright twinkles

fun and easy on the eye

they say 'come on, you know you want me, step up and don't be shy'

take off the lid

dip right in

everyone loves a tiny bit of sin!

I love to cook for you,
Steam billowing from pans and your arms lazily draped over me,
Lips honeyed with ***,
Your pockets jingle with trinkets and you stir the pan,
Grazing the sauce with your eyes and the spoon,
After,
You'll bury your head in my neck and tell me I'm brilliant and you want to lie down,
I want years of you, decades,
I could drink crates of you and only want more.
The girl with pockets filled with tissues and one hand on a book and the other on my foot,
You hold my heart like chicken soup,
Bringing it right to your nose and tasting every drop.

on the spoon
floats a whey
for the blimp

I have a two-week breaking point.
For 14 days I go through the motions: emotionless.
For a fortnight of time, I am indifferent to all things.

Yet on that 15th day I snap, bringing my composure down as well.

On the 15th day, I resort back to a shell of dependency,
hunkering away in isolation with nobody to depend on.
I become a nail made for a wall, but with no wall to go into.
My sole purpose is hopeless and my ambitions crushed.

Some may say I have a two-week expiration date.