They will call you caramel and brown sugar,

my little mocha cappucino with a little extra mocha

and you will start to believe that you are a sweet thing

made to be consumed.


Sweet because you must never be bitter,

never scorch or sour their tongues,

or answer back in mouth puckering words,

or grow spikes (or a spine) where there should only be soft curves


Made to be consumed because you were not created to be here for long

and your purpose for living is the momentary joy you give others,

You are the veritable Santa Claus of emotional labor except they never want you to be real.

Give, give, give,

till you are empty and scraped out.

Every last crumb licked off of someone else’s fingers.

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