Cake Fix

Cellophane crackles at the lightest touch

even in hands as small as hers.

She works her fingers across the packet

wrapped in the plastic-like film –

that fragmented, snapping sound

too soft to hide the noises

down the hall.

She pinches both sides of the wrapper,

pulls and plucks the puck-shaped cake out.

Shards of paper-thin icing flake off, litter her lap.

Distant bottles clink and clang,

a soft, submissive voice pleads but meets

harsh, sharp barks and shattering glass.

Chocolate melts quickly and bits of cake

crumble and stick to her fingertips.

She licks the residue off her skin,

silently sucks in her breath and lets

her teardrops pool and spill

and soak the collar of her nightgown.

She bites through the soft chocolate shell,

sinks her teeth into moist sponge,

reaches the whip cream center and

scoops some out with the tip of her tongue,

swallows between the steady beats

of dull, thudding fists hitting skin.

Empty and hollow and wanting

she reaches into the stash under her bed

grabs another – again and again –

rips apart the cellophane,

bites so big her cheeks puff out, and

crumbs and saliva drip out of her mouth.

Barely breathing and trying not to choke,

she hears the whimpers and moans start to slow.

She leans over the edge of her bed and lets

it all come up and out of her,

until all that’s left is the bitter taste of bile,

and a painful, hungry sadness.