Chicken Tenders

I make myself

the last

of the chicken tenders

cause the smell of your pizza

reminded me

I need to eat

too.

you tell me

you'd rather

eat the chicken,

expecting

I will just give

what I have made myself.

without question.

without inquiry.

without thanks.

I say,

"but this is what I have made

and want".

You toss your pizza

and stamp your foot

claiming "fine"

which takes up residence

as an elephant

in the corner.

I am now your arch nemesis

while you hold love hostage

over chicken tenders.

I eat my fill

and lick my fingers,

unwounded.

the slaps of childishness

do not sting.