I made cookies
The wrong way, with anger
Permeating the dough
The order was wrong and I knew it
But I had to get it OUT
I burned my
Hand on the
Oven but that was nothing
Compared to how the match flames
Must have felt
On his skin
His skin
With freckles from hand to shoulder and
I can't
Can't
Can't
Handle this right now.

I scalded my hands to wash the mess I made
And it burned
But I knew
It was not nearly as hot
As fire licking flesh
Of a boy
Whom I love
Who disregards all promises
To ME that HE
Will not hurt himself anymore.

In a world where
Kids burn themselves for relief
And babies are abandoned
And pain abounds
What difference
Does one batch
Of wrong cookies make?