What I Didn't Make

I buttered their toast this morning.

The knife went down smooth,

and I watched it sink in, watched it shine.

Sarah asked for seconds.

I made them without counting.

My own plate stayed empty.

Not on purpose, not exactly.

Just one of those things

that happens when you're moving,

when you're thinking about who needs what.

By the time I looked up, everyone was done.

I didn't notice I was hungry until 10 AM.

Stomach tight. Vision a little blurred.

I snapped at my partner

over something stupid,

something about the way he loaded the dishwasher,

like his hands don't know how to be gentle.

Later, he asked what was wrong.

I said nothing.

Because how do you explain that you forgot to eat?

How do you say: I was too busy feeding everyone else

and now I'm angry at my own hunger,

angry at myself for being angry,

angry at the fact that this is my life—

standing in the kitchen

making sure everyone else

gets full,

while I become the kind of person

who can just... skip it.

Who can just not need.

Who can smile and say I'm fine

when my hands are shaking a little.