Father I just want to pray for all the kids out there who will not get any sweets this year for Christmas, father I just pray that you will bless them in your own wy that they will know they are loved not because of what they get but because of who you are.
yasmin stared up into the man’s bright blue eyes, her fingers sticky from the lollipop wedged between her teeth. red stains coated the edges of her lips that were formed into a big smile that stretched from one side of her face to the other.
She said that her name was Candy but somehow I doubted that. She was young and pretty in a hard way. Her face was perpetually drawn into a scowl and her eyes were always narrowed. Candy was the name of a sweet girl but she was sour and cold.
Sweet and sticky, the contents of the wrapper now swishing around in my mouth. The hard taffy sticks to my teeth as I grin, the taste of molasses hitting my tastebuds.
You tasted like candy.
At times you were so sweet it was overwhelmingly blissful.
I felt you coursing through my veins, I’m on an all time high.
I wonder if there could ever be a moment more sugary sweet than this.
But of course it will, because as we grow older we’ll grow into one whole sugary mold.
i kept on thinking of candy but i just can’t stop thinking of you too. too sweet. too delicious. a little ball of happiness that melts my insides and makes me smile. can you be my own little candy, sweetie?
Candy. She’s sweet like sticky, salty caramels. Wrapped up in fancy paper, costing twice as much as regular milk caramels. Sticky–because it’s dangerous to even look at her. If I stare too long, she’ll notice.
If she doesn’t notice, I think I’ll die.
Salted–because what else would make these wounds hurt so beautifully? Rubbed into every raw crevice, pressed into the gaping hole, even as bloody rivers carve their way down my chest.
Wrapped in fancy paper, because who–really?–would wear such things in this day and age? She’s no princess–or nun. Yet she shrouds herself in layers of elegant fabrics. Yards upon yards of handcrafted wonders, stamped with shimmering gold–or painted? I don’t know which.
Does it matter?
Probably not. I will die, after all.
Mortals aren’t meant to live on this plane–not with–her.
She is no princess, for she is nothing but a goddess.
i put the tiny, colorful ball into my mouth, letting it sit on my tongue
it melts as it sits there, sweetness filling my taste buds
my lips curve into a smile
The rich, full strength of the bourbon hit her tongue and the taste of unnaturally sweet, red juice from the jar of Marichino cherries lingered on her lips long enough for him to taste as his mouth met hers. The taste of the Manhattan cocktail they had shared now punctuated the softness of her mouth. The sweetest, most intoxicating candy he could ever imagine.
I was dressed up like a clown for the fourth year in a row. My sister had worn the costume for years before, but she finally grew out of it and was wearing a brand new princess costume. The two of us walked up to the old woman’s house to ring the door bell and yell “trick or treat,” before she put the stale candy in our buckets.
She had no less than fourteen barettes in her hair–in purely deocrative places–each one with a plastic sweet glued o one end. Her hair was blue at the roots and pink at the tips.
it tastes like heaven and it smells like one too. Nostalgia over flowed her senses as she bit into the little piece of life on her hands. An explosion of flavors bursted into her mouth as if shooting stars and fireworks were exploding in her taste buds.
Candy. Das hört sich an wie ein Baby. Ein Sugarbaby. Ich will nicht denken, ich will nur schreiben, ich will, dass die Dinge sich entwickeln, dass sie ihren Lauf nehmen, ohne dass ich es forciere. Ich will den Dingen Zeit geben, damit sie ihren Rhythmus finden können, denn das ist das Wichtgste, sich nicht drängen lassen und einfach tun, was gerade dran ist.
Father I just want to pray for all the kids out there who will not get any sweets this year for Christmas, father I just pray that you will bless them in your own wy that they will know they are loved not because of what they get but because of who you are.
yasmin stared up into the man’s bright blue eyes, her fingers sticky from the lollipop wedged between her teeth. red stains coated the edges of her lips that were formed into a big smile that stretched from one side of her face to the other.
She said that her name was Candy but somehow I doubted that. She was young and pretty in a hard way. Her face was perpetually drawn into a scowl and her eyes were always narrowed. Candy was the name of a sweet girl but she was sour and cold.
Sweet and sticky, the contents of the wrapper now swishing around in my mouth. The hard taffy sticks to my teeth as I grin, the taste of molasses hitting my tastebuds.
You tasted like candy.
At times you were so sweet it was overwhelmingly blissful.
I felt you coursing through my veins, I’m on an all time high.
I wonder if there could ever be a moment more sugary sweet than this.
But of course it will, because as we grow older we’ll grow into one whole sugary mold.
i kept on thinking of candy but i just can’t stop thinking of you too. too sweet. too delicious. a little ball of happiness that melts my insides and makes me smile. can you be my own little candy, sweetie?
Candy. She’s sweet like sticky, salty caramels. Wrapped up in fancy paper, costing twice as much as regular milk caramels. Sticky–because it’s dangerous to even look at her. If I stare too long, she’ll notice.
If she doesn’t notice, I think I’ll die.
Salted–because what else would make these wounds hurt so beautifully? Rubbed into every raw crevice, pressed into the gaping hole, even as bloody rivers carve their way down my chest.
Wrapped in fancy paper, because who–really?–would wear such things in this day and age? She’s no princess–or nun. Yet she shrouds herself in layers of elegant fabrics. Yards upon yards of handcrafted wonders, stamped with shimmering gold–or painted? I don’t know which.
Does it matter?
Probably not. I will die, after all.
Mortals aren’t meant to live on this plane–not with–her.
She is no princess, for she is nothing but a goddess.
i put the tiny, colorful ball into my mouth, letting it sit on my tongue
it melts as it sits there, sweetness filling my taste buds
my lips curve into a smile
The rich, full strength of the bourbon hit her tongue and the taste of unnaturally sweet, red juice from the jar of Marichino cherries lingered on her lips long enough for him to taste as his mouth met hers. The taste of the Manhattan cocktail they had shared now punctuated the softness of her mouth. The sweetest, most intoxicating candy he could ever imagine.
I was dressed up like a clown for the fourth year in a row. My sister had worn the costume for years before, but she finally grew out of it and was wearing a brand new princess costume. The two of us walked up to the old woman’s house to ring the door bell and yell “trick or treat,” before she put the stale candy in our buckets.
She had no less than fourteen barettes in her hair–in purely deocrative places–each one with a plastic sweet glued o one end. Her hair was blue at the roots and pink at the tips.
“What are you looking at?” she said.
“it’s a slippery slope,” she will say two weeks from now.
“it doesn’t have to be this way,” she will plead, as you walk away, towards the beach
but for now, you two sit on the balcony, legs swung over the metal ledge
it tastes like heaven and it smells like one too. Nostalgia over flowed her senses as she bit into the little piece of life on her hands. An explosion of flavors bursted into her mouth as if shooting stars and fireworks were exploding in her taste buds.
Candy. Das hört sich an wie ein Baby. Ein Sugarbaby. Ich will nicht denken, ich will nur schreiben, ich will, dass die Dinge sich entwickeln, dass sie ihren Lauf nehmen, ohne dass ich es forciere. Ich will den Dingen Zeit geben, damit sie ihren Rhythmus finden können, denn das ist das Wichtgste, sich nicht drängen lassen und einfach tun, was gerade dran ist.