I take a bite.
The taste, it's sweet.
The texture, it's crisp.
I take another bite.
The taste, it's grand.
The texture, it's great.
I take a third bite.
The taste, it's old.
The texture, it's the same.
I take one last bite.
The taste, it's gone.
The texture, it's nonexistent.
Why do I do this to myself?
I guess that's just the way the cookie crumbles.

I lost
        my Thoughts
                     of you
           that kept
                     me
           survive
  

           That's the
       way
           cookie crumbles

To reassure me
You utter softly
                    "Just think of me
                     As a cookie
                     You've been dying to eat"
...
I'm nervous
My hands are shaking
When I place them on your knees

Sure
I've tasted hard lollipops before
And they were easy to take in my mouth
As my lips formed around them.

But I've never had a sugar cookie
Quite like this before
With a goddess
Quite like you

Your voice is calm
Collected
But weighed down
Over the sound of my panting
As your fingers tangle in my hair
                    "Relax"

My body twitches with excitement
Anxiety
Because I want to please you
But I don't know how

I lean forward anyway
And lick away some of the frosting
You moan
And I know you taste sweeter than ever.

When you get down
On your knees in front of me
I panic:
                 “Please don't.”

I'm so used to
  Being the one to kneel
  Being your submissive
  Being the one
To caress your sensitive sugar cookie
With the tip of my tongue
Just not the other way around:
                 “Stop.”

I'm scared
Because what if
You don't like the way I taste
What if
I'm not sweet enough for you
The thought
Burns up my insides:
                 “please don't…”

But when you plant
A candy coated kiss
On my quivering
Inner thigh
I can feel myself
Dripping
My frosting
Creating a damp oval
On the bed spread
A gentle moan escapes my lips:
                 “stop…”

Yet
Your body is hungry
And my words
Only make your stomach growl

So you lean forward anyway
And kiss away at the sugar
My tension growing:
                 “Please don't. Stop.”
Dripping and melting
Into a pleading whimper
                 “Please don't stop.”

Evidently
I seem to be sweet enough for you.

cookie tins and tea
your faded grade school drawings
and her chipped birdbath

Admiring a cookie
half dipped in hot milk
---plop

When you speak, the listener understands you. When you write, the reader understands themselves.