Emotions escape by us all. Those dodgy lowball bullets of confidence, maybe a bit sifted through with those antiqued sieves and then stamped counterfeit, squeak in retreat.
‘Give sentiment, be not sentimental,’ she chides the king of cake.
As is the lady’s way of dismissed privilege, to chide, not knowing the first thing about silver plates or bullets.
Later in cloaked midnight, temporary airs are discarded. Apparitions appear all the same while laughing in platinum frosting.
It was that moment, I myself, felt domestically feral. Turning to make contracts of tears that bite hands, and feed on others guilty pleasures.
Open wounds of the heart only heal, when the chocolate is buttered, creamed, and gloved in silk.