You’re a great cook, but tonight the food
looks like sick. It looks like sick and smells
like sick. I can barely bring myself to put the spoon
into the bowl. This is not your fault;
anxiety does this to me. On better days
your food is restaurant-quality. I devour it like
I’m consuming the fruits of love itself. But tonight
it looks like sick. I’ll eat it slowly, tenatively,
like I’m feeding my lost self back into myself,
the self that feels sick, because that’s really
what this is – it’s not about you, it’s about me,
the way love can turn my stomach both that way
and this. Either way, you are great – my lost self
surely knows it. And you’re a great cook,
even though tonight the food, well, looks like sick.
Joshua Seigal
