NEPTUNE BURNS

caution warnings!

why should I be thankful for this mediocrity covered in soggy pb&j sandwiches piled high on this ceramic plate of "warnings: microwave safe, oven safe, dishwasher safe

          except not really because if you pour too much soap the sides might      chip off its color and you'll have sad colored plates

            except not really because if you preheat the oven at 475 and toss it in chances are      your pineapple turn cake will be dripping down the sides of a ruined greasy hell site

              except not really because oil boiled in plastic will simmer and      bubble and clutter and explode"

so why should I be happy with this idea of sitting at home and becoming my mother?
to      wait      at the kitchen scrubbing at old pots and pans because "who can bother to get new ones if they will always end up grimy" my husband says as he   loiters   on the couch on his phone trying to find the best new television set for a television he barely ever uses

so why should I be happy to become a cookie precut
     predestined
          pre-packaged
shoved into a jar and grabbed at by hungry hands with sharp fingernails and blunt teeth to be held together by fondant and gum paste to want to crumble because every cookie fucking crumbles but be repaired because a cookie can't be enjoyed just
                            one
goddamn it no it has to be sampled far and wide

so why should I want this love. is this even love? where my mother sits at the kitchen table cracking jokes about how her husband might be cheating on her   but who cares   as long as she has her children. mom, who taught you that your worth and happiness should be confined to your children? and why are we all   learning to repeat   the cycle of being fed the idea that no man is good enough so why not just forget trying.

i was too young, mom, too young to be told what i was told. what child wants to look at their father and wonder if he's secretly holding another woman besides mama in their arms? what child should have to run around the kitchen finding  l e f t o v e r  fondant to patch the holes of their mother's jaded eyes?

why should I be content to be you, mother? why should i walk around hearing your "warnings: heartbreak safe, tear proof, shatter proof

except not really because heart breaks don't happen in an oven they happen in your chest and your ribs are strong but baby a butter knife can slide right between them

except not really because once it falls it's bound to get dented and chipped and maybe just maybe you will shed a tear

except maybe not really because it won't break it will just feel like it is and the world won't give a damn pretty baby because the world made you to smile and hold the silent screams echoed in a blender just stick your head in the fucking oven and get high on the fumes to get yourself through this life"

and mother, why should i know how to love when i can never tell what warnings are printed and which ones you've scratched over?

A/N: this is the result of thinking too much and not thinking enough. also semi-autobiographical which is nothing new.
Dedicated to bmydarling because holy goodness her work has made me want to start posting again.