Pale starch white skin,
likeness to flour and milk.
Melted honey eyes,
the color of french chocolate silk.

Pretty cinnamon hair,
falls in sheets down her back.
She smells faintly of perfume,
her lemon ammonia extracts.

Her dainty lips in a cupids bow,
soft and stained as peach.
Offset by the color,
of golden apple cheeks.

She's the ingredients she stores,
as she bared recipe parchment.
She becomes a chef tonight,
she's a whiz in this department.

She puts criss crosses in the dough,
strawberry gashes all over.
Closely watching the berry lines,
to see what they can show her.

Precious cherry slits,
cut over blackberry bruises.
And collect together at her feet,
a puddle of rasberry juices.

Oh her pain is sweet and tart,
warm apple crisp metallic.
It's her depraved sweetooth,
and she cant do without it.

So she cuts through the dough,
to let the steam of sadness rise.
But accidently pricks a stem,
gets a fatalistic surpsise.

She's drowing in her filling,
what a classic way to die.
Spilled a medley of rotten fruits.
Made her own apple pie