onion soup.

You slaved over that hot stove
for hours cooking down those damn onions,
dehydrating green beans swimming in lemon juice and butter,
perfecting a couscous salad:
all to impress me.
I'm being honest when I say everything tastes great,
yet I'm left with a bitter taste in my mouth.
And I know I shouldn't, but I feel guilty.
You're so obviously sure about me
and I'm still on the fence.
You won't stop talking about how I look
and I couldn't feel less seen.
I guess the way to my heart
isn't through my stomach.