I am hollowed out and the shell
of me is filled with sugared strawberries
and thorny patience.
Scoop me out and replace
who I am
with what you like instead:
maybe brown sugar and pecans,
maybe peaches warmed in the sun.
Or maybe once my insides
are missing,
you won't
fill me up again.
Maybe you'll just leave me empty.
You forgot to put sugar
with the flour,
and I am only
butter and salt.
Maybe you won't finish
what you started.
Maybe you prefer
a bitter woman to a sweet girl,
dough hardening
in the fridge.
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