Men love women who are wedding cakes,
the ones with creamy frosting smooth skin
adorned with pretty perfectly placed flowers
that dot each strictly structured tier
Making their eyes widen at the sugary surprise,

 Men also love the women who are warm gooey pies

with a golden brown crispy crust straight from the oven
carefully holding in the sweet mushy cherries, apples, peaches
sending off an aroma so delicious
causing drool to drip from their hungry lips
Men love their sweets to be prim with intricate frosting designs
or doughy and soft, coated in a savory sticky glaze
Women with batter beat and kneaded
to fit the mold of the pan
before getting cooked to perfection
But me?
I am woman but I am no pristine pastry
found on display in bakery windows
I am the dreaded fruitcake that your crazy cat-lady
of a great aunt always brings to every Christmas Eve
the one gift everyone begrudgingly accepts with a bitter smile
as they carelessly stow away my rock hard tasteless self
in a dark corner to be ignored until I grow green from mold
Though it’s not so bad being the fruit cake
whose batter oozes out of the rusted metal pan
simply a messy nightmare never to be baked correctly
because I would much rather be free to rot in a corner
away from prying narrowed eyes
then get my skin cut into by a butterknife
and have pieces of me missing and devoured
Like women who are wedding cakes.