Cravings

Sugarplum Fairy, so blank and glaring. Powdered sugar trails

from your wand to your tiny waist to the sorry excuse

of skin between your nose and upper lip to the flurry

above your brow. I wonder, looking

through this domain of yours, is this substance rust? I find

sugar is white and pure, but its desire to corrode

my inner innocence slowly over time concerns me in a distant memory. My stomach hurts,

my gums feel weak, my teeth

sensitive to the chill of mint winter. My gut bubbles like a witch’s brew, caught in an acidic, gaseous rumble. My innards query

to my body’s hub, a derelict thought processor,

“Why do you keep going back in?”

I know that the falling confectionary holds no more joy but a ceaseless

rotting. The Fairy just wants us

to blow up like dead fish so that we may

explode, a deranged pinata, for her to feast on like we did her creations.

I try to hide in the pit of her chocolate bark trees, laying in my bed of canker sores.

I am nothing more than an animal that found solitude in a faulty lifesaver wrapper.