Past pain has turned me
into a skeptic of sweet things
he speaks to me with words
of pure raw sugar,
I search for artificiality first,
and enjoy the taste later
Even where no trace of it exists,
I mistake his words for aspartame,
I doubt his sincerity
I doubt my ability to be loved,
to be cared for,
to be covered with sugar.
Somehow, over time,
I’ve lost my sweetness,
I’ve grown bitter.
Perhaps if I had practiced
more self love,
planted kisses on my body at night,
I would’ve tasted the difference
in my skin’s taste,
would’ve keenly noticed
the decline in flavor
like one does when chewing gum.
But what can I do now?
except take in his words
and believe them,
except hold his hand when he offers
and grab it when he forgets
What else can I do but be vulnerable
What else can I do but prepare to be loved.