the oven stayed on too long today,
but I am still the softest thing in the room.
baked into a paper liner,
holding myself together with nothing
but a bit of sugar and the hope
that the blue inside me doesn't stain
the hands that reach for a piece.
my friend—the one who holds the map
while I trip over the sidewalk—
tells me I am made of "good things."
she says I am a blueberry muffin,
a small, rounded promise of breakfast
on a morning that feels too heavy
to wake up for.
she worries about the crumbs,
and she says it like she thinks
the world is a giant mouth
that doesn’t know how to say thank you.
she wants to keep me in the box,
keep the sugar from falling off
onto the floor.
if i’m a muffin,
then i’m the one with the most berries,
bursting open just because
i couldn’t contain the excitement
of seeing you walk through the door.
so I’ll stay soft.
I’ll keep my sugar-crust intact
until I find the person who knows
that the best part of the muffin
isn't the top, or the berry,
but the warmth it leaves
in the palms of the people
who were brave enough
to hold it while it was still hot.
don't worry about me getting hurt.
i’ve got enough sugar
to coat every sharp edge I find.