I bake this cake when I want to **** myself.

In a way I started honing the recipe
so long ago I can no longer
even find a beginning or end.
I've just been standing here
in the same kitchen
measuring the same piles of
powder over
and over.
Slowing time
with balanced
machine wizardry.

Each drop of egg yolk
and dash of almond,
another passing thought
filling spaces between
each tentative sunrise.
Powdered sugar landing with such
precise inflection
it’s focused sweetness
echoes through the body like a sharp gasp

The gentle vulnerability
of domestic banality
reminding the nervous system
that humanity
has and will forever
be a collaborative effort.

A warm,
living document
on what mattered most.
What’s still flickering in the night
at the dark edge of everything.

My plan was to **** myself once I ran out of money
but now I don’t want to
and I’m so scared.
It’s 3 am again and I’m in the backstage
part of this world
between awake and dreaming
and want nothing more
than to live every minute of sunlight.

I know it’s a mess
and that’s scary,
but a little fear is natural in this ritual
as with all the others.
Now salve your hands
and move your wrists like mine.