Horrific Confection

Lemon pound cake is so heavy.
She is a petrified slab. A thinly-iced temptation
toward consumption. Hacking up albuminous clots until
knotty strands entangle the glottis. A mangled lullaby-
the skein of baby blue yarn unspools from under her tongue.
Dreamy depressor abrasive with granules.
Feverish gleam of needles unblurs
into sticky tines, hollow basins. Slow motion stirring.
Gelatinous egg whites stiffen. Gold-tipped lacy peaks
that always collapse beneath her hands. Swathes of mucus always ooze
from slugs nestled inside her pastel cupcake papers.

Red Velvet cake is so messy.
Will she ever be done testing the pale underside
of her wrist? Crimson wisps strain to escape
as she struggles to grip slippery gobs of buttercream, silver flecks,
raw eggs' exposed yolks tinged red. She cannot
whisk it away. The chilling metallic implements.
The stained plastic measuring spoons hanging limply
from sodden string. A rusty sieve damp with congealed rubies
and tiny marmoreal shards. A steely cold mixing bowl distorts
her powdered face. She is a wan and waning moon,
marooned. She wields a misshapen pastry tube;
squeezes out pasty roses onto her sunken cheeks.
A shiny knife winks at her. It wants her-
a frosted slice. Gaping and glazed with coagulum.