he is trying to find a way to reach for me
without getting his hands messy.
he offers me a Cookie;
a store-bought, plastic-wrapped gesture,
shelf-stable and engineered to last
without ever actually being fresh.
he asks me about the places i’ve eaten,
lowballing the conversation
like he’s afraid that if we talk about the hunger,
we’ll both realize he’s brought an empty plate.
for the hundredth time, he asks for my schedule.
it’s a safe rhythm, a ticking clock
that keeps him from having to say anything real.
he’s fumbling, and he knows it—
tripping over the Unsalted ******* of his own words.
it’s the "fine" answer to "how was your day,"
the dry, flavorless thing you eat
when you’re too sick to handle the truth,
or too afraid of the spice of a real choice.
he’s standing in the room like Cotton Candy—
huge, bright, and spinning gold.
from a distance, he looks like a feast,
a sugary promise of something sweet.
but the second i try to take a bite,
the second i lean in for the substance,
he dissolves into pink air and hot breath.
a fifteen-minute duet plot that vanishes on the tongue,
leaving me with nothing but a sticky residue
and the realization that i want substance.
he’s playing it safe because he can’t handle the weight.
he sees the legal pad in my lap
and the gavel waiting in my hand,
and he decides that the "nothing left"
is easier to offer than the "too much."
i gave him the floor.
i asked for the Filibuster, for the messy,
hour-long rambling of a boy who refuses to let the bill die.
i wanted the frantic syllables, the desperate "don't leave,"
the loud, jagged truth that keeps the house on fire.
but he wouldn't take the time i gave him.
he just checked the clock and asked me
what my monday looks like.
but i am a Blueberry Muffin left on the counter,
the sugar-crust waiting for a hand
that actually wants to feel the heat.
but i am an Orange.
i am full of juice and sunlight and a brilliant, messy confession.
i don't need a snack that won't spoil;
i need someone who isn't afraid to get their fingers sticky.
so keep your store-bought cookies.
stay on the shelf where it’s safe.
i’m done trying to find a meal
in a man who is made of nothing but sugar-crust
Apr 29
Apr 29, 2026 at 9:02 PM UTC
he is trying to find a way to reach for me
without getting his hands messy.
he offers me a Cookie;
a store-bought, plastic-wrapped gesture,
shelf-stable and engineered to last
without ever actually being fresh.
he asks me about the places i’ve eaten,
lowballing the conversation
like he’s afraid that if we talk about the hunger,
we’ll both realize he’s brought an empty plate.
for the hundredth time, he asks for my schedule.
it’s a safe rhythm, a ticking clock
that keeps him from having to say anything real.
he’s fumbling, and he knows it—
tripping over the Unsalted ******* of his own words.
it’s the "fine" answer to "how was your day,"
the dry, flavorless thing you eat
when you’re too sick to handle the truth,
or too afraid of the spice of a real choice.
he’s standing in the room like Cotton Candy—
huge, bright, and spinning gold.
from a distance, he looks like a feast,
a sugary promise of something sweet.
but the second i try to take a bite,
the second i lean in for the substance,
he dissolves into pink air and hot breath.
a fifteen-minute duet plot that vanishes on the tongue,
leaving me with nothing but a sticky residue
and the realization that i want substance.
he’s playing it safe because he can’t handle the weight.
he sees the legal pad in my lap
and the gavel waiting in my hand,
and he decides that the "nothing left"
is easier to offer than the "too much."
i gave him the floor.
i asked for the Filibuster, for the messy,
hour-long rambling of a boy who refuses to let the bill die.
i wanted the frantic syllables, the desperate "don't leave,"
the loud, jagged truth that keeps the house on fire.
but he wouldn't take the time i gave him.
he just checked the clock and asked me
what my monday looks like.
but i am a Blueberry Muffin left on the counter,
the sugar-crust waiting for a hand
that actually wants to feel the heat.
but i am an Orange.
i am full of juice and sunlight and a brilliant, messy confession.
i don't need a snack that won't spoil;
i need someone who isn't afraid to get their fingers sticky.
so keep your store-bought cookies.
stay on the shelf where it’s safe.
i’m done trying to find a meal
in a man who is made of nothing but sugar-crust
