Like broccoli to a small child,

scraped away I am.

At the dish’s edge, I am piled,

left upon the pan.

Slowly, my heart grows cold;

no forks poke my way

until I’m brought home to the trash,

no food on my tray.

No apples to keep

cold, gloved hands of doctors away,

no hearts to beat

or sear my ego into filets.

I’m starving, hungry

to find a food that I don'...

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