Repeat After Me

A poem about food rules and life.

Repeat after me:
“Do not order wings on a first date.”

One pound, half a pound, a sampler size.

Okay. Think fast. He’s watching.

 

Carnivorous, indulgent thoughts.

That’s all that you are.

Why can’t you be like all the other girls?

Order a god damn salad already.

 

Too much pressure.
You fumble. Order starter wings.

Hot honey Sriracha,
breathtaking buffalo,
tantalizing Thai curry,

that ooey gooey sauce smacked between your lips,

like a lip gloss.

Meaty goodness stuck between your molars;

snack for later.

Just don’t look up.

 

Last week’s edition of Cosmo featured a girl
from North Carolina

who ordered ribs once,

and her date never texted her back.

Just two blue checkmarks.

 

Oh god. He’s watching.

Wonder what he’s thinking.

Eat slow, eat slow.

Sloppy.

Ugh. You’re sloppy,

but worse, self indulgent.

No control. You have no control in your life.

 

There’s sauce dripping down your chin.

He doesn’t want you anymore,

you pig.

 

Maybe you should say something now.

Entertain him;
food for thought.

But your mouth is too busy

entertaining your stomach.

Awkward, anxious, anxiety.

You can’t help but finish the last bite.

 

He drops you home at last.

You lie awake staring at your ceiling.

“Do not order wings on a first date,

do not order wings on a first date,

do not order wings on a first date,

do not...”