She was never one
for fancy candies.
Boxes of chocolates
failed to tempt her,
as she never knew what was contained
behind the sweetened outer layer,
what sensations
would flood her mouth.

Instead she preferred
freshly-baked cookies,
hot from the oven,
perfectly-shaped beauties
that would burn her tongue,
or days later,
warmed from ten seconds
in the microwave
(artificial warmth, that is,
home reheated,
her tongue could not tell
the difference).

It was the same
with men.

She loved them
if she knew
where they stood,
nevermind
if they stood
on her fingers.

The ones who might
respect her,
she didn’t bother herself with.

At least with the ones she chose,
she knew
how they’d hurt.

© Bryan Borland