Harlequin

cookie jars

baked with everlasting love and heartache
and grief and heartbreak.
put them in while they are still warm
lock them away in a drawer of the aorta
make sure they don't

get lost in the blood of Atlanta
the cookies are baked with nightshade
and they will eat their
way into your

bones;
and soul;
and mind of stone;

the empty shell of a starry-eyed child
who filled her seven jars with Valentine hearts
and shooting stars,
whose heart was made of glass
so everyone saw the light

and now it's gone
and the dark devours her flesh skeleton like the Big
Bad Wolf
fangs sinking in, questions questions questions
about whether she will ever be enough for

anything

or

anybody.

and we wouldn't want that to happen.
so hold the lid down
and never let them spill.

tightly.

and twist. and twist. and twist.