Food of Loathing

I made myself a meal
and forced it down my throat.
It sounded so great,
the recipe so perfect.
Who could resist
a self-pity pie.
Filled with empty longing
and baked with abandonment.
No one even knows
that they made me eat.
I play the victim once again
and bring the fork to my mouth
And suddenly as I'm ready to vomit
the realization comes over me
in waves like nausea
no one forced the fork
to my eager mouth
it was my own hand,
my own tears and strife
that went into the pastry.
Yet I blame everyone else.
When I should have been
baking for them.
Mixing up batches of love cakes
and pouring out kindness sauce.
If I'd only stepped out of the kitchen
for a moment,
I might have seen earlier,
that the need is great.
And I live in a bakery.
I have been pretending far too long
that I have been starving.
In truth, I will be fed much more
of the milk of human kindness
when I offer the glass to others.