Smooth, Warm, Creamy

Hatred

I stayed still until you had left, closing the cupboard door behind you and causing the air around me to turn cold. How could you do this to me? And with Chicken Noodle Soup, of all the cans in the cupboard.

Y'know what? Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe what we needed was some space. I didn't like everything about you, no matter what you might've thought. Your hands shook whenever you held the spoon, causing you to spill me down your shirt. I don't belong on shirts. The washer's a dark place, man. I don't wanna end up there again. Your breath was strong enough to take down a badger, constantly reeking of onions that had been left in the sun to rot. It was nice to get a break from that.

But then again, it was me who took away that stale onion smell. It was me who warmed you up when you were cold. The day your grandma died, who comforted you? That's right, me. Without me, you'd be nothing. Absolutely nothing. And then you go and pull this? I thought you were better than that. I suppose some people just don't think about others' feelings, do they?

I was so smooth, so warm, so creamy, yet I obviously wasn't good enough for you. Did I not satisfy you anymore? Not quench your thirst, calm your deepest and most intense urges? Whatever. Just don't come crawling back to me when your new favourite gets boring.