I write because I feel like a half eaten cake
That has made it’s way into the garbage
A cake muddled with dirt and soaked
In Sunday night’s leftover bacon grease
A cake nostalgic about the pink frosted letters,
“Happy Birthday”,
Yearning to feel the warmth
From the glowing candles it once held
A cake with no where left to go but the landfill
Tossed out to rot, to be picked off by the birds
A cake that’s endured such a happy birthday, indeed.