I am ten point New Roman scribe

I am hushed whorls of smoke

ghosts of bittered wax

weeping, always weeping.

We are captives.

Held inside can shaped jellies

and dried meat husks.

We are whisked away,

only to be snatched brutally

by buttered golden fluffs of dough.

And you.
You are the worst of us all.

You are the bitter rhubarb scars,

clanging aftertastes of badly cooked crusts,

lying,

conning,

strawberries

wrapped in awkward layers and topped

with clouds

constantly luring me inward.