Woman a La Quarantine
Serve me on a silver platter and deliver me to joy

I’m an improvised stew. Put together in haste, concocted without consideration.
I have been simmering in time. He’s a merciless bastard who keeps going non-stop. He couldn’t care less about things left undone. He sprints towards the end.
That’s what we created it for.
I grabbed all of the ingredients of this goulash we’ll call Me, and tossed them into a pot. Barely enough seasoning and, some would argue, too much salt.
It’s all my fault.
Heat exceedingly high, and a spoon that stirs too fast.
I have allowed myself to boil in rage.
But I’m done.
Done with that shit.
I can still make the best of this dish — infuse it with gusto. I will discard the burnt bits, though. It will be impossible to forget what they taste like, but I no longer need to swallow them.
I’m cooked through now. Serve me on a silver platter and deliver me to joy, to love, to hope.
Time to savor and share. My mouth is watering — so much life to taste in so little time.
Let’s get to it.






