Made With Love

My heart smells like burnt dessert. A thick charcoal layer sits, as if it was filled in volcanic rock. The pain aches and runs through my veins. I want to scoop it up with a spoon, and feed it to you. I want it to poison your teeth, make you decay, for you to taste what you have done to me.

Nonetheless... upon retrospect...

Maybe the chef just needs to know when to stop. Maybe the chef needs to trust their intuition when something has cooked enough. When charcoal burns very hot, it's hard to scrape it off the bottom of the pan.