You can have your cake and eat it too
my mother said, mocking my reluctance
to lick past the frosting,
the unwillingness to become her.
Blackberries stain her fresh lips
smirking in disdain. She drains them dry,
like the men slipping through our front door
too swift for second impressions.
I pictured her as an orange
after nails sink in,
ripping it apart and devouring the pulpy interior,
until just the skin remains.