cooking

afloat
on a pat of butter
in a pan
over high heat
wondering why
my arm hairs
are getting
singed

perhaps
i will dissolve
into the dismissal
of my own
misunderstandings

my former obsession
depression
sinks her fangs
into my neck again
to speed
the cooking time
reminding me
she was
always the one
with the spatula

the flu
flies
in the face
of faceless
rejection
sending waves of ache
through trembling
limbs

the fever is back
full force
to melt the butter
evenly
the only clarification
is the clarified fats
into which
i sink

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