Luring me in, I see you
You little devil, with horns to the sky
Hands occupied by an apple pie
Its steam evaporating, dancing in the fire
Which is translucent and meek but no less dire
Your lilac glow once beamed wistful light
Until you tried to push me into the oven that Sunday night
I am marked by all your scalds and bites,
Blisters leaking pus, a filthy off white
They will not be the cream to top off your pie,
Despite mortality to you meaning “take my life”