Bitter Dinner

The stew lay cold in the chipped bowl,

over-salted edges crusted thick,

a smell that lingers like old debts

and smoke that won’t quit the room.

I grimaced, the taste a crooked knife,

bitterness cutting past hunger,

memories folded sharp in burnt sauce,

like the night the kitchen caught fire.

She stirred with hands worn thin,

the salted stew thickening slow,

a flavor of late nights and tight words,

the kitchen crowded, heavy with unspoken.

Now, alone, I taste what was left unsaid,

each bite a reminder I carry

like cracked ceramic—something broken,

a meal meant to nourish, now just sting.