Bake

My plate is always piled yet my fork has nothing on it, beamed up by sensory overload onto a different culinary planet. Please don’t think me rude for leaving most of each meal, it’s simply an agreement I made with my devil, a self-imposed deal. My fridge may look full though recipes are few, at least I know how to mix vowels and consonants into a syllable stew. This is an empty shame, a hollow unrisen bun: I’m male, I’m white, I’m educated, so surely this cake should be done. A deprivation tank which I worry echoes an expected gay cliché; “No, I’ve already eaten, I’ll snack later. I’m not feeling well, sorry I can’t stay.” Twenty years of hunger and binge now seem to live inside my skin, the pain a physical invisible late fee payment for thin. My bowl is always full, but my spoon has no story to be told. My body is a restaurant chain business, finally ready to fold.