To The Spoon

In truth, it wasn't as bad as I made it out to be. The ice cream I scooped in the white bowl was vanilla. I wanted something not so complex. I wanted something that brought me back to a happier time a simplier time when I was younger and things like you're outward apperance didn't matter much. Or all everybody wonderd who was dating whom.


The time gave me an illusion of safey when really I was bare footed on a glass edge. And the edge was cracking. I was with my dad on the back of his old truck. The truck he said I could have one day but I never got. Oh well. We sat and to avoid my mother's terrible cooking we would walk up to the Jiffy Mart and get vanilla ice cream. A simple time.

I felt bad after I ate the contents of the bowl. Not because I had injested something. Not because eating this would hold me back from getting a picture of my self in a certain size of pants. I wanted to cry because I had placed something cold inside of me. Because I was desprate for company in an empty house. Because I longed for a taste of certainty. I knew vanilla ice cream would always taste the same. And it would always be there. I pressed the cold spoon to my lips. Touching it with soft skins. The spoon would always be there, too. I understood how the spoon felt when it was the only one left in the drawer. When it was the only one who tried to see everybody in an equal light but the reflection gave off only a blurred picutre.

At first I thought I was like the ice cream. Cold, dissapearing, something that some people wanted but some people couldn't have.

Time went on, I realized I was the spoon. I grew cold when people were cold to me, I tried to see people in equality but each picture was duller and duller with time. Often I would lay awaken in my drawer and wonder when I would rust away.

So, to the lonely spoon now in an empty bowl, like an empty world, like an empty home, I feel you.