Spaghetti
I get home,
and ask a simple question:
“Hey, Mom. What’s for dinner?”
“Spaghetti.”

My least favorite food.
She forces me to eat it.
I take the first bite,
feeling like I ate rotten eggs.

I take another bite,
but it still tastes awful.
I keep eating.
Don’t want to start an argument.

It starts to feel normal,
like eating a hamburger.
My mom smiles
I eat more.

Hey,
I  like this stuff.
The noodles don’t feel like worms,
and I can eat the sauce without gagging.  

Finally,
I can eat this without starting arguments.
The house peaceful.
I did it.