I like to think of life like a pie.

On the outside, you see this flaky, buttery crust,

Perfectly risen with a golden-brown dome.

Normally there’s some kind of gooey fruit filling inside it,

Glistening with cherries or apples or chocolate,

But one day when I decided to try some of my life’s pie,

There was absolutely nothing inside.

It was as if someone delicately cut around the top crust,

Gently placed it to the side,

And ate everything inside of it.

They must have placed the top back on and left it

So that when I finally decided to take a slice

My entire pie collapsed on itself.

 

Every-so-often, I take a piece of the broken crust

And pop it into my mouth.

Sometimes I would get really lucky,

And there would be some strangely sweet jam on it.

So I would take more pieces and cram them into my mouth,

Excited that my pie could actually be tasty and wonderful,

Only to spit them out when I realized how dry it was.

 

The worst is when I look over my shoulder

And I see everyone else enjoying their pies,

Full of sugar and chocolate and fruit.

And then I would look at my crumpled mess,

With its crust shattered like a glass cup knocked off the kitchen table,

And the disgusting clumps formed from the leftover jam.

Maybe the next pie would be better,

But you only get one pie per lifetime.

So I’m stuck with the pie I was given,

And I  have to make the best of it.

Sure, I could always throw it away now,

But maybe by continuing to eat it

And learning to enjoy it as much as I can,

I can spite the terrible baker who gave it to me.