At the breakfast table,
I'm hungry.
Hungry for something to have, for something to know.
While others can scoop Cheerios out of their bowls,
I'm trying to spoon my way out of an "undiggable" hole.
I just want to feel whole,
again.
Instead of hating myself, and all of my friends,
for believing all of the lies I tell them,
for loving a figment, a dead end.
I just want to feel full.
And being full of nothing still gives your bowel the same pull
as letting all of the bullshit that slips through your lips become engulfed.

I never liked the taste of Cheerios.
So bland, so manufactured.
Like half assed apologies,
Like washed up actors.
They taste like "I love you...
Even though we're only in high school."
They taste like "I swear you're my first".
They taste like "love is meant to hurt".
Toasted whole grain oats in the shape of my eyes
Wide open and something missing inside

At the breakfast table,
I prepare myself to start my day,
Rehearse my "How are you"s and "I'm okay"s

At the breakfast table,
I'm full with anticipated defeat.
So why bother pouring myself a bowl of lies I'm going to just gag down instead of eat?

I would much rather write poems of a gamier meat. 

Poetry is an honest art, hung up in a world of deceit.