I left the porch light on, let the kettle sing low,
still set two chipped plates out of stubborn ritual.
The snow’s been talking all night—soft, accusatory—
every flake a syllable of what we never said.
I used to measure worth in collar-bone shadows,
counted ribs like rosary beads, skipped meals
the way sinners skip stones:
hoping distance would make the ripples disappear.
But hunger has a voice—
it whispers from the marrow,
asks if shrinking is the same as vanishing,
if absence is the only armor that still fits.
Tonight I thaw my palms against the oven’s breath,
steam writing apologies across the kitchen glass.
I butter bread like I’m buttering old wounds,
lay forgiveness on the cutting board
next to carrots bright as second chances.
I’m learning how to swallow kindness
without choking on the calories of regret.
I chew slow, tasting every hour I starved
the girl who only wanted to be enough.
Outside, the pines keep their own vigil—
needles trembling, but rooted.
Inside, I lift a spoonful of soup to the dark
like a toast to every ghost I tried to outrun.
I still don’t know the recipe for peace,
but I’m simmering something that smells like maybe.
And if God’s listening through the clatter of dishes,
let the answer be this quiet warmth,
this refusal to disappear,
this plate I finally dare to finish.
