Pizza

One Friday night,
I am all alone
in my apartment
with a box of pizza.

A pizza is a circle
that consists of triangle slices,
slices that look like rooftops
of houses that are not built.

I take one slice
and ruin the neighborhood
as I open the gateway
to the void of starvation.

There is a warmth of acceptance
inside my tummy
while I take another slice
after finishing my first.

I continue to eat
as I fill my emptiness
with the presence of a home
abandoned by its reality.

Another bite arrives,
another house disappears,
another delight comes along,
another slice awaits me.

I go on and on
until the box is left
with nothing but the space
the rooftops have left.

Once everything is gone,
and I have nothing left to take,
I can’t help myself from smiling
since the world is beautiful again.

I have taken all those rooftops
and gathered them inside me
just to be my own house,
and be my own home.

A food may be a food,
but it can be something more;
a pizza may be a pizza
but it can give you a home.

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