after "Doll Parts" by Hole
One sticky summer, I learn how to bake.
Frozen berries, olive oil, rosewater,
simple syrup, butter, a persistent ache.
Batter grows thick and fat in the heat, while
in my wet center, a honeycomb melts.
I cut my palm on a broken cup
and the kitchen sponge erupts in welts.
Late June, I sweat into the mixing bowl
and think of your mouth, a thing that I hate.
All the honey within me: crystalline, old.
I want to cough up each sweet thing I ate,
the thirst for sugar I could not slake.
I still want to be the girl with the most cake.