a *sad* metaphor.
i am
the heaping plate of food you made
when you were ravenously hungry,
unrealistically thinking that you could eat it all.
you start to get close to halfway through and you realize that
yikes, you’re getting pretty full,
and the food isn’t piping hot anymore — it’s cold now,
so it just doesn’t taste as good as it did at first,
and there are a ton of other things you’d rather be doing than eating this.
then again, you’ve already made it this far;
might as well keep muddling through, yeah?
…but it just becomes too much,
it’s so boring to just sit here and keep chomping away at something
you don’t even want to be eating.
so, you stick what’s left of me in the fridge.
the next day, you come back, thinking of that
steaming hot meal
that you began yesterday (not how cold and less tasty it was at the end),
and feel yourself start to drool.
you want me again.
you pull me out, and begin the process anew,
but the moment you bite into me you’re made painfully aware
that it just isn’t the same as those first few bites;
i’ve lost my magical quality.
here we are though, too late to go back; might as well finish.
but i know it, just as you do.
you’re going to give up again, just like before;
but i’m only a plate of food, i was made to be eaten by you.
i dare not open my mouth and risk being thrown away completely.
left in the fridge is always better than being left in the trash…
i’ll rot away without you, can’t you see?
