Here is a cake made from coneflowers and cut losses;
you have to eat it with the window open like a suicide.
My house is your house, and all that.
Anything wrong with the cake?
Something is funny with the lights, they keep flickering and exploding.
Why is your baggage still here in the kitchen
taking up space so unattractively?
I like samplers.
This one says things you'd rather it didn't.
So. Tell mama.
Use all the usual Hollywood tricks.
Happy it up.
Make everybody prettier, then have more cake.
It's from an old family recipe that calls for legal documents and collected dust.
Inside, you'll find a letter.
It's from the future and says the same thing as the sampler.
Don't come at me with the utensils.
You called me, after the priest and the psychic threw you out.
Don't eat with your mouth full.
Now's the time to get it off your chest,
come clean, stop mumbling excuses, stop fidgeting and just say it.
Don't talk with your mouth open.
Don't waste my time.
Don't keep me from my daily rituals.
Of course I love you.
I knew before you did that you'd come here,
with no preservatives, no animal flesh, no bread, no bone.
So, I baked at 375 for all these years.
Now eat your cake before it gets cold.
For Marian's "November Themes" challenge at Real Toads. I chose "cake."