I eat my feelings. For breakfast.
I take everything that reminds me of you and throw it all in a pan with some oil. I add salt, pepper and smoked paprika.
I crack two eggs into the pan and scramble them. I can see our faces in a photo we took at Disneyland, peeking out from underneath the egg white, slowly fading as the egg cooks.
I eat my feelings. For lunch.
I take everything that reminds me of you and spread it all out on the cutting board. I slice a baguette and stuff it with some bus tickets, love letters and a seagull feather you gave me to put it my hatband because you thought I liked stuff like that.
I add some lettuce, tomato, mustard and mayonnaise. No onion.
I eat my feelings. For dinner.
I take everything that reminds me of you and throw it all into the meat grinder. I roll it into balls and bake them in the oven with marinara sauce. The meatballs are full of little blue sparkles from the nail polish you left at my fourth-grade slumber party. The meat cooks but the sparkles stay sparkly.
I eat my feelings. For dessert.
I take everything that reminds me of you and squash it between the layers of a cake, with the oldest memories at the bottom and the newest ones at the top. Your eye is the last thing I see before the entire thing gets covered in cream cheese icing. In the photo you were smiling but the eye on its own looks terrified, and this makes me feel better.