skrewhed

dinner b4 des(s)ert.

What's the rush?

2:23am EST. Wednesday.

Sweet.

appeasing to watering tastebuds, wondering eyes, and wishful thinking.

Quick.

Fitting for the impatient majority, available for even the slightest of efforts. Every shade of chocolate dances in gold through the eyes of the lustful lurker. The temptation of its sweet taste, strikes up even the stingiest of curiosities. Euphoric pleas from the silent voices of distorted reason, scream fuck it.

And who are you to resist, say no? Who have you ever been?

Split second decisions easing the burning satisfaction of 30 minute desires. And one bite has never been enough. Fifty shades of brown engulf your eyes, and you can no longer see the color of the room. 

One more trip down this impossibly circular path. You can’t take the spin of another dizzying rotation.   

The aroma continues to grow stronger. And you don’t know what you did to deserve this meal. You don’t know who’s cooking anymore. You have forgotten what was for dinner.

Just one more bi–

You are hungry, but even more impatient. That lil’ cake on the counter never looked better than it does right now.

-bite. 

Dinner is done.

It smells like grandma’s kitchen on a Sunday. It looks like the Last Supper. It is the Last Supper.

The familiar desire to feast begins to creep back over you, as your meal shimmers in the glittering light of growth. But you’ve already had enough to eat.

I thought you liked that.

And now you feel like you should have fucking waited, because it’s not going to be hot forever. The scent will wane in silence.

I thought you liked that?

Dinner is rapidly chilling to temperatures that threaten to numb the existence of flavors you once imagined.

It’ll never be the same, so you discard of it all and now you’re left with an empty Kitchen.

Des(s)ert. 

 

 

Keith Haynie

Editor in Chief

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