i am a mixture of curdled milk and stale bread,
where blenders are diets that my friends use as meal supplements.
the BMI test tells me im halfway-obese,
maybe that is why i am heartless.
and i can't stop but feel jealous for the ones around me.
my kitchen was never intended as an open invitation,
yet you walked yourself through.
you read through my friend lists like recipe books;
i feel ashamed if you've heard of her too.
"i value the essence of our friendship",
another tongue-twister that you parade.
i guess ive heard the stories,
where you message 5 other group chats the same, exact thing.
a copy-paste mechanism of a lindt cafe.
i feel you whisk through me,
climbing these follower lists like social ladders,
see i value the face,
you value the number.
once i start to burn in this slow cooker,
and you move onto someone else,
i will again ask myself again,
why am i made of butter?
the community i chose to reside in
is as acidic as lemon juice,
and as basic as the clothes they cannot fit in.
watch this become a story, of
yet another 80kg girl,
trying to please a 20 calorie pancake.
i am a mixture of self-doubt and 3-day old breadcrumbs.
a soup brewed from homegrown chemicals.
see i can blame you,
for the milk curdle, another culinary mistake.
but that is when i realise,
i have become the same.