More sugar, less spice

He is made of sugar and spice
He has a dark side but tries to be nice
With eyes like diamonds, teeth like pearl
It’s no wonder he can have any girl

But he only wants one, if he can
A pretty brunette named Mary Ann
She lives on his block, a couple doors down
He always feels better when she’s around

But Mary’s got a secret, though he’d never tell
She’s a fallen angel who should be in hell
What’s her sin? He’s not quite sure
But he knows for a fact, she isn’t pure

But he’d let her take him to heaven or hell
He doesn’t care, he’s under her spell
He takes a chance one rainy night
To see what feelings he can ignite

He convinces Mary to let him in
And so he enters her den of sin
There are chains and axes hung on the wall
She puts her arms around him “We’re gonna have a ball”
Her eyes are beautiful, her smile just the same
But suddenly he doesn’t want to play her game

“Uh, I brought you flowers.”
“Let’s go do it in the shower.”
“I think I should go”
“What, so soon, no.
“Yeah it’s getting late”
“I thought you wanted this date”

He moves towards the door; she goes to block it
So he goes towards the couch to take a sit
This is what I wanted I guess I should see
If there can be anything between Mary and me

He holds out his hand, “Come sit with me”
She smiles and kisses him so tenderly
His kiss is sweet, like sugar and candy
His scent is musky like her favorite brandy

Fangs come out, and claws follow
When she gets turned on she does more than swallow
She goes for his neck but without a haste
He digs his claws into her waist

Bright red blood pour out for all to see
“What the hell, I thought you liked me!”
“I do Mary Ann, don’t take this the wrong way,”
“But I’m a werewolf, I’d still like to stay.”
“After you stabbed me? I think not!”
“Why, I still think you’re hot.

He didn’t mean to cut her
Or to bust out in fur
But when he gets heated he loses control
And lets not forget, she wanted his soul

“Can I at least help you. You’re bleeding.”
He was apologetic and practically pleading
“Fine, go get me towel.”
Outside, there was the sound of an owl

He pressed down on the wound trying to be gentle
He noticed hearts in jars on her mantle
“You’re not going to take mine, right?”
“No… not tonight.”
She liked his sweetness, and his darkened spice
She knew that she could kill him but she’d try to be nice.




She is made of pretzel sticks and cherry cola

Long blond hair, she answers to Nola

Nothing matters to her more than his laughter

Sadly to him, she doesn’t matter

She works the concession stand mon-fri

He comes in every other Wednesday

Not once has he asked her name

But she’s still hopeful he’ll ask her to the game

One typical Wednesday he comes in with a smile

She smiles back, her heart stops for a while

He orders a cola and a pretzel with extra cheese

In her head she’s begging, “ask me out, please”

Behind him comes another guy who puts his arm around his waist

“oh, make that order a double, for my boyfriend Chase.”

300 pounds of Salt

He goes to the bathroom to throw up his breakfast. A habit he participates in three times a day–breakfast, lunch, dinner. That’s how he counts his days–breakfast, lunch and dinner and when he can hurl out the fatty chunks again.

300 pounds didn’t look good on him. Or at least that’s the way others made him feel. No one talked to him at 300 pounds, no one dated him, slept with him, or even made eye contact with him.

He was born with the name Stuart, but everyone called him Salt–something to do with his love of salty foods as a child. He let the name stick even though he felt he had outgrown it. He had out grown his love for all food.

“Salt! What are you doing in the bathroom, you’re going to be late for school!” His mother would routinely yell.

Solving my genetic problem, he thinks to himself. Everyone in Salt’s family is over weight. Everyone except Helen, who was adopted. Tall and thin, Salt envies her. She envies him. She envies the fact that his parents are still living.

They are a little closer than what a brother and sister should be. But he feels safe with her. She would eat his food sometimes to keep suspicion at bay. But deep down Salt’s father knows his son has a problem. He knows he hates the way he looks. He felt the same thing at his age. But he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to admit that his son is starving himself. Boys don’t do that. And if they do, it’s just a weird phase, a teenage trend. He’ll get over it.

He is smaller now. Everyone notices. Complements him on it. Small feels good. It feels less frightening. He works out till he pukes. He smokes cigarettes and drinks black coffee.


“You can’t keep going like this.” Says Helen, concerned.

No response comes from his lips. He just stands in the mirror pinching his skin, looking for fat pockets.

“Stop it! You’re not fat. You never were Salt.”

“Shut up. What do you know. You’re stick thin and perfect.”

“Skinny doesn’t mean perfect. It’s just a body size.”

“Well I hate mine!” He yells before leaving the bathroom.

Helen sighs. It’s pointless to argue.

Salt meets his girlfriend Ally. Yes, he has a girlfriend now. Something he could only dream of at 300.


“Let’s go get something to eat,” she suggests.

He shakes his head. Lunch had already come. He has to wait for dinner.

“I’m not hungry,” he replies.

“You never want eat out with me. Are you embarrassed of me or something?”

Ally has nothing to worry about weight wise. But she has a slew of insecurities brought on by her string of exes.

“Of course not. I’m just not hungry.”

“But I’m hungry!”

“Then go eat!” He says frustrated.

She turns to walk away when he grabs her waist and pulls her close.

“Ally, would you have dated me if I was 300 pounds”

She shrugs, “you’re not fat.”

“But what if I was,” he asks, pushing for an answer.

“I don’t know. Who cares. You’re not 300 pounds. Can we go eat now.”

“But I used to be.” He says low before loosening his arms around her and walking away.

In February

In February the air tastes like hope

It tastes like possibility

I crowd my calendar with opportunity

In February I want to plant seeds

To see if they will bloom

To see if my dreams are worth harvesting

In February the chill is still in the air

But there’s more warmth in my heart

It comes and goes mind you

But the point is it comes

In February I let myself fall in love with tomorrow

I let myself fall in love

And hope I’ll be loved back


These days, I have to lay in bed for a little while longer to let my dreams unravel. I close my eyes while the dreams complete, spinning and whirling in my head and while another part of me tries to make sense of them. These days, I’m so tired I could sleep all day if I allowed myself to. I’ve come up with a strange belief. If I am constantly tired and it’s not for any medical reason, it’s because my body is charging itself for some future business. Somehow it knows that days or weeks from now I’ll be losing sleep and so it’s collecting as much of it as it can, gearing up for the future fatigue. I know it’s silly. But it’s always somehow been true, for me.

My dreams these days are vivid and delicious. It’s as if I’m living life more deeply when I’m sleeping. But I wake up and when I do I have to take a moment to remind myself that I am not in a dream, pull myself out of bed, and begin to search for some purpose for my day.

Some days the purpose finds me.

It’s not just my mind that’s unravelling. It feels as if my whole being is going through some kind of separation. All my layers are being pulled out, spun out, and laid out. The way you would lay out photographs as you try to decide which ones are special enough to be framed. Perhaps that’s what I’m doing–deciding which parts of me deserve to be displayed and which ones need to be tucked away.

It takes practice to be yourself. Perhaps that is why we stumble through our lives. Though I have noticed that some people have sureness about themselves from a very early age. It’s a very beautiful thing. The rest of us will take a few extra moments to collect our selves in the morning, decide who we want to be and find the appropriate costume to play out the role. Until one day, it becomes so natural that we assume it’s how we’ve been our whole lives.

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