Cookie Cutter

My life sits on the stove
bubbling over, the stench of burning starch
invades my heaving chest.

I can't believe I just compared
my life to a boiling pot of pasta.
Is this what I have become?

I've reduced myself to culinary
metaphor
and gastric simile.

They tell me to avoid cliches
in poetry.
Well then, how do I avoid myself?