We default to such politeness. Just a bite, we’ll say, offered a piece
of birthday cake, lowering our eyelashes as a puny square inch is sliced
and served. Meanwhile, inside, we are a rage of sugar-want, craving release
from the prison of our appetite, though no one would have guessed
it, looking on as, daintily, we pass the steel tines of our fork through,
and lift our stinginess directly into our mouth. Not anymore. I am finished
with that lie. I refuse the smidgen, the hint, the sip. No half of a half will do.
I don’t think happiness comes that way, at least not the kind I’ve wished
for, tilting my face on empty nights to a full moon, which never once regretted
its radiance. So no, not a bite. I'll say it now. It’s the cake I’ve always wanted.