Woke Food Critic
by M. Allshouse
Rewrite my pain.
Make it palatable—
easy on the tongue,
soft on the ego.
You wanted to taste my hurt,
savor it like a delicacy,
but too much salt
and suddenly it’s inedible.
“This one’s too…”
You don’t even finish the thought.
You just push it away,
call the waiter over
with a smirk and a shrug—
“I just don’t like it.”
No one asked you to try.
There were other options.
My past was a secret menu item,
never listed,
never meant for tourists
with borrowed appetites.
But you lied.
Said you were a connoisseur—
a woke food critic
with a taste for the tragic.
You said you could handle the spice,
the burn,
the ache.
But you couldn’t.
You barely swallowed the first bite
before reaching for dessert—
my softness,
my secrets,
the sugar I guard like scripture.
But I don’t know what your mother taught you,
so let me say this clear:
If you don’t eat your dinner,
you don’t get a fucking treat.
No sweetness.
No warmth.
No me.
If my trauma is too rich for you,
then maybe
an ice cream truck
is more your speed.
All cold comfort,
no substance—
just a song in the distance
and a fleeting thrill
melting before it matters.
Woke Food Critic
by M. Allshouse
Rewrite my pain.
Make it palatable—
easy on the tongue,
soft on the ego.
You wanted to taste my hurt,
savor it like a delicacy,
but too much salt
and suddenly it’s inedible.
“This one’s too…”
You don’t even finish the thought.
You just push it away,
call the waiter over
with a smirk and a shrug—
“I just don’t like it.”
No one asked you to try.
There were other options.
My past was a secret menu item,
never listed,
never meant for tourists
with borrowed appetites.
But you lied.
Said you were a connoisseur—
a woke food critic
with a taste for the tragic.
You said you could handle the spice,
the burn,
the ache.
But you couldn’t.
You barely swallowed the first bite
before reaching for dessert—
my softness,
my secrets,
the sugar I guard like scripture.
But I don’t know what your mother taught you,
so let me say this clear:
If you don’t eat your dinner,
you don’t get a fucking treat.
No sweetness.
No warmth.
No me.
If my trauma is too rich for you,
then maybe
an ice cream truck
is more your speed.
All cold comfort,
no substance—
just a song in the distance
and a fleeting thrill
melting before it matters.