I Need To Eat Better

Croissant flakes on my notebook –

My plate.

My words are the entree,

They taste good,

I made them.

I want to know what I’m

Trying to say.

A weird mix of

“I love you,”

“Where are you,” and

“Why was I made,” followed by

“Why am I this way?”

It’d be easier if I wasn’t.

I chew on these questions

And tasting is almost as good

As being full, and in the moment

It’s always better.

But I’m getting tired.

It’d be nice to hear from some

Else. Their words.

How can I tell myself who I am?

I need to be told.

My diet’s bad.

I gotta work on that.