To those who have said,
That I need more meat on my bones.
Please, leave me the hell alone.
Call me string bean one more ******* time,
And I swear to god, I’ll kamikaze my metabolism.
Just so I don’t have to hear “toothpick” again,
And what most may not know is that:
I have an intimate relationship with food,
and cook with the same heart that I love with.
So let me tell you something:
This heart isn’t something you should **** with.
This heart is surprise bouquets and cabernet,
Romanesco blooms and manta ray.
Caviar salad and salmon fillet,
With rosemary, lemon, and that Old Bay....
So don’t tell me that I need to learn how to eat,
I think the issue is more so that,
You need to learn how to cook.
Other than an unusually fast metabolism,
My trim stature can be attributed to a
Wooden box of my own broken hearts
That I’ve collected over the years of trying to love.
Maybe the people that are the skinniest,
Are the people who lost their appetites a while ago.
After a broken heart or a passing friend,
Or a relationship that was never meant to end.
So let me ask you this.
Tell me what you know about,
Gravity working overtime to keep
A fork away from your mouth?
It’s better to of loved and lost,
Than to have never of loved at all.
But I’ve loved so many,
And lost so much,
It’s no wonder my waist is so small.
When I see someone with...
A little more to love, I get jealous,
Because it shows how much they have loved,
And how little they’ve lost.
Shows that they have consistent love,
A persistent love, that different love.
Whenever you tell me that I need to eat more,
You’re actually saying: patch up your heart.
Put duct tape over all the holes,
And hope that my heart stays afloat --
to somehow trick the freudian part of me
into thinking that everything’s okay.
That everything has been okay.
As if it’s something I have never tried doing,
Because I enjoy being called toothpick.
When you tell me I need more meat on my bones.
I want to tell you to hurt a little,
Feel how heavy a fork gets
when someone’s on your mind.
Feel how hard chewing becomes,
When you’ve already bit off
more than you can handle.
I want you to feel the Carolina Reaper,
Throw burning embers into your wooden casket
Of overthinking, and feel the heat,
When you put yourself under the pressure to eat.
I want you to know the feeling
Of your stomach eating itself from the inside out.
But you can’t bare to remember to eat,
So you just drown it out in stout.
I want you to feel so overwhelmed,
That hours last seconds and days last minutes.
And time escapes you and all you can think about
Is how you’re going to forget about “her”.
I want you to spend every waking moment,
Replaying the same images in your head.
Working all day, and then getting to bed,
Realizing all you had today was butter and bread.
I want for someone to break your heart,
And for you to forget to eat.
And then have to be called stringbean,
Everyday in between.
I want you to see
Filet mignon and mushroom cap stuffing.
King crab legs and honey-glazed duckling,
And feel your stomach do absolutely nothing.
[ . . . ]
But I hope that you never feel this way.
This grief makes for hungriest people,
but makes for the best poetry and music.
And it’s not something I’m willing to share,
With someone who calls me toothpick.
