I.

It had taken something
like fourteen hours
for the devil
to make a cake for her
perfect daughter
all custard-filled
and chocolate
and I threw it down the stairs.

Not that I was trying
to do so.

II.

It's just that
I slipped
on a rogue sock that
had made its home
on the sixth step down
and when I lost balance
I instinctively extended
my legs and
l a u n c h e d
myself into the musty
cosmos of the basement

And for a brief moment,
I was Superman

III.

"Great, it's in the
******* carpeting"
was all she had to say
as I lay gasping on
the concrete floor of the
basement,
pain blooming in
my side
and for a moment
I thought that maybe I deserved
to the pain because
I broke the cake.

Either way,
I hid the pain in my side
for weeks
and haven't
eaten chocolate cake since.

IV.

My side doesn't hurt much
anymore.
And my soul burns a whole lot less.