Bon appétit

My body hums with a symphony of stings,
wounds throb like pears rotting in heat.
My aching skin, flakes like a snake,
Each browned bite, tart and sweet.

In summary, my pain is culinary.
It rides the edge of a cleaver,
Separates like butter under the sun,
Or sanity in a fever.

I spread myself thin, modern Anne Boleyn,
With a head fit for King Henry’s wife.
Reaching for a replica of heaven
The way a chef reaches for his trusty knife.

My tears are salty but occasionally sweet,
Dripping like fog from a furnace,
Seared into my cheeks like grill marks,
As you chew through the meat of my sternness.

What have I done to earn this?
Pulled myself apart like pork, Diced my ambitions
Plated myself prettily,
Glazed in honey and contrition.

Let my pain be the buffet,
Take all you can eat.
I am served raw for your judgement-
Bon appétit.

By: Savannah Smyth