Angela Elias Poet Narrative

The Price of a Taste

They tell you love is a gentle thing, a quiet, steady light,
Like a silver spoon or a warm blanket in the night.
But when you grow up starving and the kitchen table is bare,
You’ll take whatever scrap they throw and call it loving care.

You mistake the grip for grounding. You think a bruise is deep.
You think a screaming match is passion when you cannot sleep.
When no one treats you softly, the hunger breaks your mind.
You look at weapons and convince yourself they’re kind.

So you pull right up to the table and you look straight at the blade,
And you do not count the cost of all the cuts that have been made.
You learn to lick the sweetness off the cold, unyielding steel,
And if it bleeds, it bleeds...at least it proves that you can feel.

But a throat lined with scar tissue gets tired of the taste.
You wake up in the quiet, sick of all the years you’d waste.
You look in the mirror at the damage and the art,
And realize you called a knife the anchor of your heart.

It’s terrifying, walking out and letting the kitchen freeze,
To drop the blade and try to breathe outside the old disease.
To see a hand come toward you open, hesitant and slow,
Offering a quiet space where you don't have to guard the blow.

It takes a lot of unlearning to trust a softer touch,
To realize that a peaceful love doesn’t ask for half as much.
You learn to taste the quiet things, the simple and the plain,
And realize you can be full without a drop of pain.



- Inspiration -
"When you not fed love on a silver spoon you learn to lick it off knives."

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