I wallow in domesticity

and bake cakes

to feed simplicity.

I let them burn – they taste better

Egg shells mixed with walnuts

The frosting curdled,

granular and lackluster.

The oven becomes a temporary sanctuary

Scorched fingers – disturb dormancy.

Don’t mind the blackened crumbs –

just ash

to fill the urn.

Should I decorate with berries or with stones?

Sweet glass

only spits blood

from untold cuts.

My knife will slice a piece

I’ll never eat

and there it will rest – food of flies.

This piece you were not meant to swallow

will mold and rot

like my cadaver.