Window Eating
I go to the fridge and mill through the made meals and make no effort to mash one into my mouth.
Mumbles vibrate up my vertebrae and vent up my throat as my stomach reverberate its resounding emptiness.
I stare sometimes. I stare sometimes. I stare sometimes!
But I don't snack.
One hand on my belly, one on the door handle. Clutching the door handle feebly flitting from item to item to the door handle. Fluttering from eggs to fries to the door handle.
I. Stare. Sometimes.
Hear no crunch. Hear no crunch or nibble as I nonchalantly kneed the food over in my mind.
I. Stare. Sometimes.
But I don't snack on the food on the rack or in the drawers.
I keep track of what I munch for breakfast, dinner, or lunch
because if I don't I will lose what I fought for
Lose what makes me hot
Or—
Maybe I do it because I can't stop
I stare sometimes.
YOU ARE READING
The Aggravated Mind
ПоэзияEmbracing a new pattern or rhythm of life. Taking on new ways of thinking and washing away the old. A sweet love of verse and song. My heart will go on. *Author's note* Note will be random insight to the poems of this book.
