My heart is buttered cake with brown sugar frosting. It can't take much. It melts at the edges sometimes, and there's mold on the corners. My eyes are made of green-apple jolly ranchers that are sticky in your hands. My lips are two halves of a strawberry, sometimes purple and bruised like the words that come out of them. My hands are made of milk and honey but sometimes not as warm and comforting. There's apple juice blue slushies and hot sauce running through my veins and cookie crumbs behind my brain. I am a feast and not prepared for you.