Sugar, Sugar

(Here’s a little sweetness for your weekend. The following came out of writing prompt called ‘Sugar Child.’ Enjoy……)

I want to be sugar in the raw. Just as I am… and sweet enough to change the taste of things. I want to be sugar in the raw for my lover. Soft. A bowl full of me. Bountiful. Making every little thing sweeter.

I don’t want to be doors that shut or a grey, cold afternoon sky. I don’t want to be without oxygen, hiding out, sipping life.

I want to be as sweet as candy, as pretty, as wrapped in beauty. I want to enjoy being wanted, tasted, licked, held close until it’s time for the yum. I want to be innocent, available, unprotected, raw. Raw sugar. Sugar baby.

My lover treats me like I am. For him, I am the only sugar around. I may be hard as soft water taffy — needing to be chewed and kneaded and worked before the prize. I may be lemony and sour and sharp on his tongue before he works to the smooth sweetness. But still I’m his sugar and he’ll take me in any form.

But oh sugar child – oh sugar mama. Oh baby baby baby, I’m talking to myself now. I’m pleading that I full bodied KNOW the sweetness that I am and give into it just a little. That I soften like caramel and spread the richness for myself and anyone who wants a taste.

Too much? I hope so. It’s no vow broken.  It’s just warm and revealed and flush and available. It’s me –daring– to BE the deliciousness of life- not stand outside of it growing grey, not crumple in with the weight, not limit the freedom of the fullest juiciest offering.

Sugar sugar. I marvel at how life floods us at unexpected moments with a texture we are hungry for and asks us to bathe in it for a time — how life lets us place our hand in an old pocket only to find a much loved pebble to rub reminding our straying selves of something delectable we’ve forgotten.

Because baby. Because sugar. The sweetness of life is real. And I am tired of looking through the candy store window. I want to press my face against the glass and feel its cool hard smoothness. And I want to eye every sweet thing that I want to be mine– and I want to and I will baby sweet baby, walk through the door and roll in it. I will walk through the door shedding every bit of grey and color my body with sweetness, tootsie pop. I will dip my finger into every soft colored powder and suck. Because I am tired of a pinched, drawn face and the weight I carry.

Call me cotton candy. Call me sugar love. Call me raw. But call me. Because I want to be called and consumed and asked to give it all. And I want to give it all without flinching, without closure. I want to open like a candy wrapper with all the anticipation and willingness to be torn every which way so that all that sweetness just IS– just IS.

Sugar. Love. Know this, I’m good chocolate. I’m the best. I’m silky and I’m smooth and my taste lingers. I’ve just been a little shy and a pinch preoccupied. And it’s taken a life time of playing Candy Land to remember that every spot is sweet on the way and there’s nothing to do but give into it. Sugar. Sugar. Love.

And being all grown up is boring. Being all grown up doesn’t leave room for the daily trip to the Stop n’ Go with a quarter in your pocket. I’ve got a quarter in my pocket and I’m spending it NOW — and I’m choosing carefully– a wide wide variety of YUM because I’ve been hungry for too long. But guess what. Dreamsicle. I’m the candy too. And every bite I take of sweetness, I’m licked by love like a mama cat. And sugar. I want to be soft and willing and ready. And I am. Sugar love. I am.