Little feet halt mid swing, coming down too fast in imitation of a sunken heart

Cheeks swollen in mid chew, lips scrunch into a disgusted pinch

Enlightenment, death on a plate

Cruel reality ruining meal time for the rest of days, little eyes glare with the betrayal

Hateful truth, disrupting lunch and all the promises of the day

Self discovery, a new vocabulary

Menus are now mazes and barbecues are blasphemous

Bitter three year old pushes the plate away and says “I don’t thinks so”

To the side of pig so cleverly disguised as ham

A new creed, new recipes to be learned

The conviction of the repulsed will not be swayed


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