I prefer dark chocolate and raspberry

Grief is stuck in my throat like a final meal that proclaimed itself present

And you stay in my mouth like decaying dessert too sweet to allow myself to swallow

It's gone too soon to allow myself to savor yet I'll beat myself up when it's wasted on being good for me

When it finds itself in my stomach, ripping the bile into me by tearing my content to streams of ribbon

Will it honor me for giving it the chance to have purpose, or consume me back for allowing it the chance to try?