Skinned Pizza

a revised bit of something i wrote last year.

The disappointment upon waking up and entering the kitchen, only to find the nude crust staring depressed in it’s cheeselessness at the ceiling. The doughy remains beginning to curl at the edges as it dries. The traces of sauce resemble blood left behind on the flesh of a freshly skinned animal. It’s difficult to throw away despite it’s uselessness as food. It seems like it ought to be buried, or burned. It was not, as one might assume a cat in the midst of a forbidden foray onto the counter who committed this heinous theft of dairy, but that ever present annoyance, the stoned boyfriend.