It’s always selfish of me to bake a cake.
Because even if it’s someone else’s years
that will burn and dance on top
It is still my cake.
Every sigh of pleasure shall be directed to me.
Lips brush over three-pronged steel,
a finger drags through buttercream,
a knife plunges through velvet viscera
and a wedge is pulled, slowly, from the whole
and bits of crumb fall quietly
to the floor.
Every one of those crumbs is mine.