mexican butter cookies (happy day of the dead)

you sat in my kitchen,
reveling over how you just fucked me
—this girl wearing this fetish skirt
—this woman wearing your scent
& you joked about everything I was afraid of.

there were batches of cookies baking in the oven,
& the smell was so innocent
I couldn't remember the look in your eyes when
you covered my mouth to suppress the sounds
of something they all say we're too young for.
& your birthday's coming up—
whatever could I have left to give to you?

I fed the lines you wanted to hear—
"I love you."
"I'm sorry."
"You're amazing; touch me there."—
but all that translated to was
"Help,"
because I need you more than you need me right now.

& when all was said & done,
with the cookies smelling up the house
I let myself fall for you (just for you, & only for you)
— I let myself make a big mistake,
but just like what I baked in the oven
it was just like heaven,
only with too many flaws.