extract
a poem
you bought childhood, playful remnants of the time before,
take it,
put it in a pan with
half a cup of water,
boil, stirring constantly
then bring it to a simmer,
breathe the steam,
you’re not allowed to eat it anymore,
unsure
exactly what the scent is,
unable to place it,
but it stings your lonely nostrils
like cleaning chemicals,
cooked, drizzled
with a glaze of your depression’s extract,
plated
nicely, on the finest china,
a single serving served
to famously hateful critics
with unresponsive faces,
they eat it
with their hands, loud, disgusting, chewing,
mocking,
licking long and slimy fingers
before they lean over
to throw it back up on the floor,
forcing you to clean it.
Chris Taylor is a young writer who creates poetry as a coping mechanism, sharing it as a way to connect with others. In their spare time, they enjoy spending time around dogs, family, and listening to electronic and alternative music.
