bon appetit

her stories, were long
and repetitive, alot like
my poetry, or so called
poetry. she found a theme
to rely on and wrapped
each tale around it like
bacon on a water chestnut.
it made no sense, but it
tasted good, and you had
another. and another,
until full and finished
with the sound of her
voice. after four months
of this i realized that
there was no room for me
in her stories, just her,
and so i took my toothpics
and left.