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't hate.

My stomach, churning

with not a grain atop my plate.

I dislike it all:

bread, butter, beef; Coke, candy, cream.

Though my insides growl,

my pride won’t give in to defeat.

 

Should I be savoured,

or be the delicate garnish,

offering no needed flavor?

Perhaps that is what my heart is:

a singular work—

a poem or a spice,

where deliciousness lurks

only for those who wish to stop

and appreciate the slop

that is served.