Sweet

sweet

/swēt/

adjective

1. Having the pleasant taste characteristic of sugar or honey; not salty, sour, or bitter.

noun

1. Used as an affectionate form of address to a person one is very fond of: “hello, my sweet”.


This Is How You Make Sugar

You tell me a story about when you were little.

I show you how to cook an egg in coconut oil.

We make a language just for us.

We message morning, noon and night.

I read to you.

We invent names for each other. Endearments with which to endear.

We assign meaning to randomness. Numbers. Words. Events.

We kiss and I breathe through you.

We talk about the future. Places we will be. A fantasy of writing together.

You eye-fuck me.

I let you into my world. I show you my little things.

Sugar is made in the details.


Pashmak — ‘little wool’ — is Persian fairy floss. The most beautiful floss of all.

We spun our sugar into pashmak. Pastel dreams made of air, like gossamer. Sweet. But fragile.

And I’m angry with me. With us. That I walked right into a house made of sugar, knowing my weakness, my sweet tooth. I walked right into it and gobbled it up — that house made of Persian fairy floss. Until I had a toothache and an upset tummy. Like a five-year-old at a birthday party.


The Problem With Intimacy — Part 1

Sugar has an unspoken contract.

With each grain we share, there comes a commensurate expectation. And so — I consider — if we want to eat the fairy floss, there comes, also, a responsibility.

Fucking without intimacy is fun. Possible. Wonderful.

But intimacy is not the same as taking care. It is, in fact, the inverse. Intimacy is the ledge on which we stand together, leaning out into the abyss, drinking in the vista, summoning the danger. This is why caretaking is crucial. Dashing ourselves onto the rocks — or watching the other fall from the ledge — is reckless. Careless.

Don’t demand intimacy unless you can catch me as I fall. Do not offer me sugar if you can’t take care.

I will try to be more careful too.


In our pashmak house I sat, draped in a dress spun from sugar, on a couch of gossamer, woven. Until a single sentence fell like rain and dissolved it all, and made me realise I had cast my lot where I shouldn’t have. As sweet as it seemed. Because we can’t take care of each other in this sugar house. Not now.

Will we be friends? you asked.

Maybe one day, I replied, crying and trembling in hypoglycaemic shock.

One day, when all of the sugar has melted away — the very last remnants of our sweetness — and my teeth have stopped hurting, and my tummy is better. One day when all of my sugar-fuelled expectations have gone and I have rinsed my mouth with the kisses of a dozen men.

Maybe.

For now it’s just me, in a house made of steel that I will build alone.

But I will continue to decorate it in Persian fairy floss; in pashmak, the sweetest sugar. Because the decoration is different to the foundation.

And perhaps one day I will make other sugar decorations — or even foundations of steel — with the candyman who once tiptoed across my imagination.

Maybe.

Wouldn’t that be sweet?