Shit

I am so fucking tired

of standing over heat and hope

only to have you stroll in

with that look

that smug curl of the mouth

and turn my effort into a punchline.

You say it so casually.

Like it’s nothing.

Like food doesn’t carry hands,

or time,

or the quiet way I try to show love

without saying it out loud.

“This is shit.”

You say it like you’re clever.

Like you didn’t grow up eating

what someone else made

without ever learning how hard it is

to give a damn every single day.

You don’t see the measuring,

the tasting,

the second-guessing.

You don’t see me standing there thinking,

Maybe this will be enough today.

Maybe this will be one thing

I don’t get wrong.

But you open your mouth

and turn effort into garbage

because it’s easier to tear down

than to say thank you.

Easier to criticize

than to cook.

Easier to be loud

than to be kind.

You don’t have to like it.

You don’t have to praise it.

But you don’t get to spit on something

made with intention

just because cruelty comes easier to you

than silence.

Every insult stacks up

another brick

on the wall between us.

And you don’t even notice

you’re the one building it.

I’m sick of shrinking

so your ego can stretch.

Sick of swallowing anger

so you can keep talking.

Sick of pretending it doesn’t land

when every word hits

like a slap disguised as a joke.

You think you’re just talking about food.

But you’re really saying

You’re not good enough.

Your effort doesn’t matter.

I don’t respect what you try.

And I am done carrying that.

Next time you open your mouth

to tear something down,

remember this:

I don’t owe you a plate.

I don’t owe you patience.

And I sure as hell don’t owe you silence.

If my food is “shit,”

then don’t eat it.

Don’t touch it.

Don’t stand in my space

and poison it with your voice.

Because I am tired

bone tired

of turning love into meals

for someone who only knows

how to bite the hand

that made them.