For all the boys who called me “exotic”

I had heard it enough to know you meant:

That I was desirable so long as I was shrouded in that cloud of mystique
(which was mostly just the fog in your eyes
but I didn’t have the heart to point out the difference)

And your foggy eyes lit up when you saw in me
Some alien freak here to show you a whole new #$@%ing world
So I tried to say that I’m really from this planet
And you’re not really the center of it
And between the deadness of Venus and Mars
We’re all life on Earth just trying to make it

But as you looked down to Earth
All you could see
Was some exotic fruit here for your consumption
To suck on the flesh and throw out the core


Despite my best efforts, I seem to have become one of those people who writes emotional poetry on the internet. Oh well. 

I Don’t Want Your Sweet Nothings

I don’t want your sweet nothings
My ear’s numb to the taste
I’ll take the salt and the spice and the bitterness

I don’t want your sweet nothings
They ring empty inside me
Give me thick globs of somethings to chew and digest

I don’t need more sweet nothings
That’s not what I’m made of
You’re mistaken, my dear, if you thought I was less

 

Aspartame (a snippet)

You spoke to me with a voice that was sweeter than sugar. Two hundred times sweeter, to be precise: engineered and measured to the mark. Some would call it sickening, but swimming in the dark, bitter coffee, you could shine through like natural couldn’t.

And you never promised something real, just something better: guilt-free; an untraceable zero. So you could be my zero. And I was your zero.

So then somehow I was left with a gaping hole: empty with hunger and filled with hunger.

No one thought to calculate the aftertaste.

 

aspartame_structure

 

The Early Days: Will You Be My Valentine?

Valentines Day 2001, at the Lego station in Ms. Cornelius’ Kindergarten class:

Me: Will you be my Valentine?

(Also on my list of “Valentines” that day: my mom, my neighbor, the class guinea pig.)

Hannah: No. If you’re a girl your Valentine has to be a boy and if you’re a boy it has to be a girl.

Me: Oh. Why?

Hannah: I don’t know, it’s just the rule. That’s what my dad told me.

Me: Oh. Okay.

(Mentally) That’s a weird and confusing rule. Who came up with this stuff? When do we get chocolate?

Coincidentally, I still have those three thoughts pretty frequently now.

good-bye-candy