Mud is no longer my enemy. I drag it down my face as it pools in my eyes and snags on my forked eyelashes. My fondant skin, my sponge cake cheeks, my glossed gummy worm lips, my buttercream eyes, mud-torn and scraped.
I used to have a disdain for people who aren’t made of cake. I used to walk past them, gloating and mocking their blood vessels, veins, muscles and skin. They were so human, so imperfect, their makeup covering their flesh and bones.
They could never be as perfect as me, and they knew it. They’d dig their forks into my cheeks, and I’d preen and smile for them, because how pitiable, to be human, my charity of the week, and then I’d take the day off to fill the bites taken from my arms, cheeks, hands and neck.
But now, NOW I want the fondant off my skin, the forks out of my cheeks. I pull pieces off my face, thick and sweet, layers of buttercream and fondant and cake, vanilla, nowhere near the color of blood, I pull a hand down my face, ruining my food-coloring eyes and fake blush, and suddenly, suddenly, with buttercream frosting dripping onto my dress and cake coating my hands, my face falling apart in the throes of icing and mud, I feel a little more human.
I taste icing on my tongue.