There was a cake.

Lifted gently,

as if its sweetness could delay the truth.

Placed above the table untouched, divided,

agreed upon.

The candles stood like quiet warnings.

One flame per year, per memory,

per version of me I no longer recognize.

They burned politely,

counting down to reality.

The cream was soft.

Expected.

The chocolate: bitter enough to remind me

that sweetness is not the same as satisfaction.

Eat it with me,

and maybe it won’t feel so final.

It fell.

Of course it did.

They always do,

don’t they?

The stains came quick,

familiar.

Wipe it. Harder.

Pretend it was never served.

And now it’s gone.

All of it.

No crumbs. No story.

Just a silence in my stomach

that everyone calls “full.”

Let me sit here.

Let me say I’m okay.

Let me make this

look beautiful.

-Ikkel Y.-