It’s hard to be soft inside.
To let your fluffy, cotton candy,
guts stay sweet and pink
when your throat is full of bile.
I’m choking and choked up.
I spit  honey and vitriol
and I hope it clings and stings.
I’m a grown ass woman but

I ain’t your fucking Mamaw.
You can’t butter my biscuits
without getting burnt.
And I hope it blisters.
I’m a blackberry pie
with pricks and briars baked in,
sugar scorched and encased
in pure cast iron.