On the Mysteries of Cotton Candy
Dear Person I Would Like to Remain Friends With:
I was wrong.
There’s a cotton candy machine in the back of my throat. It is all sugar and cloud. I like sugar.
Not everyone does.
A man touched my hips two weeks ago, rather incidentally, and reminded me I had hips.
And skin.
And that I like to be touched.
When I met him in the daylight, his smile went flat.
I am so tired of being after midnight hips. I didn’t feel like that with you.
Maybe because it is always sunshine, never daylight.
Maybe I got confused.
Your default avatar in my phone is a picture of you smiling so hard, you warm my face.
I been smiling, because you been smiling, a lot.
I thought you were playing. I thought we were playing.
I thought I felt you yank my ponytail. It is my tradition to then give chase, but never catch.
Always get caught, don’t act like that’s what I wanted all along.
It is a hard habit to break.
I have slick wrists and good technique. I can spin pink grains of hope into a puffy fantasy so
expertly, in nothing flat. I think, “Look at what I’ve done! Even I want a bite!”
I expected you to bite.
Not everyone does.
I have mood swings. I don’t slide into My Dark as much anymore as I:
use feet for brakes,
pull myself to stand,
walk back up the
slide.
But My Dark figured out my fake-out. Now, I flip quicker than a trick wrist. I am sure the
moods could be controlled by the medication I don’t want prescribed to me. Little pink pills
that won’t let me feel.
When I valley, I don’t want anyone near that brand of stuck.
What if I got some of it on them?
Have you ever seen what happens to cotton candy when it gets caught in the rain?
I have been telling every single one of my friends, so I wouldn’t say it to you first.
Better to mask face than have to save it.
You are a good person.
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