Sugar is sweet…until it’s not. — I used to think sugar Was always sweet But it’s often laced — You taught that to me. In the beginning, You masked your poison-apple tongue In layers of sickening caramel, Trapping me in your syrupy eyes As you filled my ears With cotton-candy promises, Evaporating like clouds On lips moistened With honey-laden compliments…

There’s no escape. — This place is a prison, I think, squeaking down the white tiles in my scuffed Adidas with a bag big enough to fit my pulsating scalp — just in case I need a place to hide. Leather-backed atrocities line the pristine walls. Uh-oh… There are too few chairs. What if…

There was always me and you. — I saw you in the sunlight, Where crisp white sheets Became white picket fences And your eyes were crystal balls, Whispering secret futures Already spun by the Universe. Before our fated coincidence, I was a widow of the world With creaky hands And brittle bones, Wasting away on the battlefield Of unfulfilled reality…

Little human, big heart — Fan blades spin in Endless circles — His favorite shape. Vents are loud And scorching hot. “Where does air come from?” Maybe I should know that… He gleefully yanks dog tails. “Look… tail!” Snarls and yelps erupt, A cacophony of chaos. Little fingers approach gaping mouths. …

Authenticity is the antidote — It’s hard to stay sane In a room full of opposites. Where tongues-in-cheeks Bleed between two-toned teeth, Biting down on taste buds As they release metallic moods In careening mouth floods. I hear you, Standing by whispering bricks, Freeing second-rate secrets From those greasy frog’s lips, While telling the flock How prince charming can’t kiss, And…

Speaking is hard. — Brains bash together like tambourines. Is there something wrong with me? Maybe an analysis of my throat would duly note glue-gunned words in macaroni smiles, jumbled in garbled piles. Polaroids shoot out like dimes to remind me of the times when twisty-ties constricted vocal fireflies, transforming lumps of light into the torturous silence of the night…

Do you see me? — I’m a walking contradiction. Maybe running would be more accurate. I feel so much it makes me want to scream out until lungs bleed and fingertips go numb from pressing them into your chest, directly at your heart, as a poignant reminder of how golden you are. …

Is the divide too great? —

I wish I’d been able to know her. — Growing up, I never knew my father’s mother, whom I simply referred to as grandma. I talked to her, saw her, and had family dinners with her, but I never knew her. It wasn’t my fault, nor was it hers. …