Lately I've been feeling like alphabet soup,
Well, alphabet spaghettios because those taste better. 
Out of all the types of spaghettios, 
The ones with meatballs, franks, less sodium,
I chose alphabet noodles. 
Knowing I'm going to consume the empty carbs and calories at a random hour of the night when insomnia strikes.
Thanking God for the pop tab that makes no sound as I creep into the kitchen for a fork, not a spoon,
And my can of cold scrambled letters.
Scared to wake up the occupants of my house because I don't feel worthy of this can, 
This can that is the only damn thing I seem to relate to lately. 
And yes, 
I am the cold, packaged and pureed over salted tomato paste that cover the stray, random, jumbled letter noodles,
Who beg to be made into something bigger,
Wishing, lying cold and trapped that they could become something more. 
But instead, 
The can is tossed, rolled under the bed, pushed aside, 
Because I can't force myself to help myself.
I feel the strength when my stomach grumbles,
And weak when I look at labels,
Weak like when you try to pick out the noodles to spell something,
And they break.