---
Children smile, giggle, or cackle
when their closets are filled
by new stuff.
With a tooth of a child,
I might want to taste this,
but a coat of a color of melted sugar
and a new tint for my strands
within an overnight nescience
is not something that pleases
my taste buds.
A sugar coat
itches me the worst,
its vaguely defined fur
both caramelized, hard
and chewy, soft
touching my skin—
a real toothache
for a heart familiar to tonsillitis
above.
The new hair strands
itches me the least,
tickles me the most,
new neon tips pushing
the old dark roots
off of my scalp—
a real toothache
for a head familiar to cracks and ache and. . .
maybe.
Mimicked bad, original good;
natural life, artificial soil;
and old love, new city—
everything, everything—
almost always sugarcoated.
"You look fragile," she said, "sweetie."
Vases, glassware, and
china shattering,
million of the tiny pieces
unnoticeable by blind kind
of sugarcoating.
I wasn't that kind of fragile.
I was sure I didn't shatter into a million pieces.
Why?
I
wasn't someone big,
just someone spun around something to exist.
Why?
I
wasn't fragile—
I was soft and real, a human almost a candyfloss.
I was sure I didn't shatter into a million pieces.
Why?
They already made a villain out of me.
---
YOU ARE READING
Sugarcoat
Poetry𝙎𝙪𝙜𝙖𝙧𝙘𝙤𝙖𝙩 ╰ a s e r i e s o f p o e m s ╰ c o m p l e t e d "The truth is underneath the layers of sugar; scrub the condiments off your eyes."
