The jam lay thick and sticky under my finger nails,
hugging against my skin and staining through the small ravines and
cracks of my finger prints.
I stood there, kneading and clawing,
punching and pulling at the elastic ball of flour.
Rubbing the stain of the blackberry jam into the dough
and crushing the pulp into its small, puffy form.
The jam smothered and ran down the sides of my perfect masterpiece,
as if because of the strain and pressure I felt at that moment.
I am the blackberry jam being punched into that perfect creamy sphere,
the darkness against all the white, with the pressure and force against me.
People try to blend me, but I am always unique and different.
I don’t blend with opposite colors,
I only make the bland seem sweeter.