Sugar sandwiched
between the slices
of my soul.
My heart
is jarred and pickled
in a good, dark french roast.
I used to joke
that I ran on caffeine,
and sugar,
and I did not mean
bodily.
I meant
my soul.
My soul ran
on the steaming mugs
of my gas station cappuccino,
on the sound of the oven
preheating,
on the slumber party packages
of Swedish fish and scotcheroos and
Snickers bars.
It would run
on the swirl
of almond milk
in my mug,
on the semi-sweet chocolate chips
in Mom’s baking cupboard.
My soul ran on it all.
Then, for awhile,
and even now,
I felt and feel
glutton.
Fat.
The waist on my pants
not loose enough
as I felt for my hip bones
while lunging and sit-up-ing and
elliptical-ing, age 10.
Thighs and stomach
not slender enough, age 15.
Hips too soft,
why be
woman
when you could be
small?
Why have
young love
when you could have
a boyfriend, his friends,
in the halls
call you fat (“cottagey”)?
It took awhile
for the shame
to leave;
it still visits most days,
when my soul craves
its soul food.
And so it has become
less fuel
and more an exercise
in indulgence,
which is to say
an exercise
in living.
Living a life
that’s full to the brim,
rather than just living on
the dregs
of bare survival.
When life
has become uncertain,
unraveled,
unexpected,
some will go for a jog,
order takeout Chinese food,
re-open their favorite novel,
or grab their paints,
call their mother,
make a mug
of hot cocoa,
or a pitcher
of molar-dissolving
sweet tea.
My soul
will ask for
a slice of cake,
then a cup of coffee,
and I will oblige,
let my pain run
on the caffeine
and on the sugar
that my happiness
used to.
