A Sweet Poem

I looked up at her.
She was incomplete,
sitting in her cup
throne, her hair in a
bowl beside her. Pink
and fancy and
sprinkles the color of
after-violent rain.

And I laid on the
floor. Flat and soft
and clumsy. Crumbs
of me orbited my
fragile, frail body.
Half of my head
missing, the perfect
crescent shape.

We were the same,
I thought. Staring up
into her: flour and
salt and sugar and
heat and children's
smiles and the bliss
of teeth and not
existing anymore.
I thought.

But without a glance
back, the door shut,
the knob turned with
a click, and that was
the last image molded
into the back of my
mind as I was broken
and crunched between
Oberon's thick canines,
slobbering and licking
and swallowing and
flour and salt and
sugar.