one-hundred-fifty-nine.

you know what you know because:
someone before you
taught, paved, led, dreamed.
stay humble.

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one-hundred-fifty-one.

untouched and stale,
crusty and undesirable.
hard pink icing
bulking,
on chalky chocolate-chips.

cream cheese filling, once gooey,
a bold, cold contrast,
now smushed like the
moody clementine peel
renting the space
at the bottom of your bag.

this is what you sound and feel like,
when you don’t invest in
connection, representation.
an unwanted, deserted cake.
a slab of dry, choking dough.
a wall of rotting egg yolks.

you had the potential to empower,
until you let it slip:
you prefer titles and looks,
like sprinkles and candles,
over impact.

you prefer the sound of your voice,
like a singing, cringing hallmark card,
over growth and working smart.

still, even though you’re deep,
in the shallow cardboard box,
opened by colleagues just curious
enough to see what you are,
you’re a mockery of a treat,
and yet the system says
you’ll forever make more than me.

gender pay gap.

one-hundred-forty-five.

“on which nights are you restless,
tuned into every toc of the clock
and every scratch of the cat?”

well, on the nights my eyes are closed,
but i can see through the lids
and listen to every crack and creek.
well, on the nights when i can feel
the draft from the vent
like waves from the sea.
well, on the nights when i am laying,
but my brain is moving
on its own two feet.

one-hundred-forty-two.

spending money and time
on a white gold never-ending circle,
a symbol of everlasting eternity,
wrapped around the finger
most connected to the heart,
should not be a one-sided
purchase or decision,
regardless of how big the diamond.

one-hundred-thirty-eight.

we’re like what happens when
you take the odds and ends
out of the fridge,
because your stomach is growling
and you need food.
you whip something up,
tossing in spices and oils
alongside unparalleled ingredients.
the combination doesn’t historically belong,
nor has it been seen in any cookbook
or instagram branded #foodporn.
but we’ve invented something that works,
better than any written recipe
could have ever suggested.
spicy, but sweet,
spontaneously savoury,
mild when we need to be.

one-hundred-thirty-six.

sometimes, familial love is like:
that dying plant on your desk.
you keep pricking off browned leaves,
re-potting it, nurturing it with new soil;
hoping it will eventually flourish,
like those picture-perfect greens,
like those picture-perfect scenes.