In fighting for nothing,
in mastering the discreet,
you’ve become a walking
defeat,
en route to your island
to contemplate and retreat,
while I’ve become cake batter
as the oven preheats,
relying on toothpicks
to announce my
readiness
to eat.
Never the full meal,
but a lick
of a
cheap,
sinful
treat.
I asked
then embodied
the form of receipt,
when the dialogue
of prayer
is a
two-way street.
You buried the truth,
but the floor had a heartbeat.
So I took the task
of drilling through
the concrete.
© Stephanie Khio 2024