soft pieces of purity laid out on a parchment sheet
it smells like raw memory and a warm home
mixed with a spoon to create something sweet
the lovely aroma lets all my memories foam

pouring in the milk laced with my very own blood
these cookies are for someone who is of worth
mixing in the flour, tears at my eyes threatening to flood
but I will endure the pain to put the dough by the hearth

before I put them in the oven, I try a little taste
I feel sick, and my stomach begins to cramp and ache
I ***** all over the floor and look at all the waste
instead of cookies, next time I should make a cake