Burnt Help

by MEGHANA JOHN

If it were up to me, food wouldn’t exist.
I would absorb energy through my skin and dehydrate the trees,
but I don’t always get what I want, so instead, I’m learning how to cook.
I hate it so far. The kitchen is big, and I am just one.

I’m not good at following recipes, but I’ll try to read the steps.
Make sure no one is watching you,
put your face directly in front of the microwave,
feel so unusually tired that you lay down,

fear that you’ll mold onto the floor,
do not move for so long you almost starve.
When I stand up, I’m inside a fishbowl.
I don’t think I’m doing this right, but I look up
and at least have the sprinkled feed at the top of the water.

Perhaps I’ve been going about this all wrong.
Maybe I’ll turn myself into a pig.
On my knees in the mud, I’ll stuff my face in a trough,
scraps drooling off my chin.
Fatten my gluttony, don’t bother to pick the pieces out of my hair.
When the time is right,
I’ll roast myself, apple in mouth, and eat off my own feet.

I don’t want any of this. I want to cook to fully take care of myself.
3 meals a day, prepped to perfection.
It’s hard to explain why I’m so scared of getting better.
Like I’m mounted to the wall, I can’t move,
nervous that if I try too hard, I’ll break in half.
I can’t help that I am a freezer burn.
Even so, I’ll try to make dinner tonight.

Meghana John is a senior creative writer who focuses on screenwriting and poetry. She is inspired by many coming of age movies and loves clothes.