February 3rd

I found the list inside the Joy of Cooking,

a book I haven't opened since I moved in.

My own handwriting, aggressive and leaning,

promised I would be a person made of steam and kale.

'No processed flour,' I wrote, a tiny law

decreed in a moment of champagne and spite.

Now I’m standing over the sink at midnight,

holding a cold slice of pepperoni pizza.

The oil has already made a map of my failure,

a dark, translucent grease spot blooming

right over the word 'discipline' on the yellow pad.

It’s salty and heavy and I’m going to finish it.