egg with bacon and a side of toast

i love cooking and writing about it, but this ones got a pinch of sad mixed in

swollen with wounded pride i chug a glass of milk
and fire up the stove, pour cool oil in a pan,
and watch as it swells with sadness
so great it resonates with hollow laughter.

i watch, beside myself, as a cracked egg
leaks onto the pan, unimpressed with perfection
as its sweet yolk spoils the pure white.
i have already lost faith in this meal.

the cold slivers of pig crackle and pop and
spit hot hate unapologetically across my arm.
i smile because it is not like the pain from the rocks
that sit at the bottom of my lungs or else lodge
in my ventricles—rending my heart.

i plate this slop I cannot unmake; it
begs for salt from tears and moist cheeks
run dry. a smell of charcoal and black
reminds me of the lonely forsaken toast.

i choke it all down like sin; it threatens to come back,
like fuel like bile swimming with evil and
unhealthy thoughts. crisp scraps are left
like skeletons in my closet.

i pour out another glass of cold milk to wash
away my memory. i laugh and
praise the one thing i haven’t fucked up.
but it won’t stay down.