Cigarettes & Honeybuns
Sitting at a bar
Feeling grown I suppose, chest swollen with good feelings
Makes for a great looking rack
But enough about my booming bosom.
Onward with the poem.
Deciding the ambiance was missing
the smell of nicotine from slender and lit cigarettes whether your poison was Newports or Virginia Slims.
Or maybe I just need to light this blunt
That has been glaring at me to read it its rights with my pouty but parted lips.
This will not be a slam poem.
I am melancholy not frustrated.
I refuse to slam this poem.
See, I bet you when you came up with
the idea behind this oddly named piece
you thought I wouldn’t take it seriously. I told you to give me a week to scribe the lines, so here it is.
I think of you and how you make me laugh deeply, breath often escaped from tightened belly, spent too much time trying to hold in my
concern for whether or not you’d call me the morning after the night you smoked 7 cigarettes while silently judging the big girl for putting
in a request for a regular glazed honey bun on your corner store run.
You questioned why I did not choose the frosted kind.
This was a most serious decision… to be continued.
Now I usually don’t go for compounded sweets, but my sugar high continued well into the night where I’d taste magic marshmallow fluff on
a tongue that has a penchant for your sweet white icing.
This sweetness is too risky.
I am concerned for our safety.
Of inhaling everything you exhale too quickly.
More afraid of you than you are of me.
I am torn, between your request to separate my love for you and my need to be a part of your liberation.
I have been caught up in both.
One does not cancel the other.
One does not chain smoke the other out.
You are honeybun, regular and plain, dense and coiled with complexity, yet all brown and golden and hints of cinnamon make me work for
it to get through you. You be bad for my heart, my sugar levels, call you Mr. Not supposed to be a part of my diet, keep
me weighing heavy because I greedily hunger for you, make me want more than I should have.
I am cigarette.
You set fire to me and I travel light speed through blood vessels, electrify fingertips, make your dick jump a little, settle on your
cerebellum as you inhale me, call me Mrs. Right up under your nose.
Cigarettes and honeybuns, most people would say it’s an unlikely combination. You dived stupidly into the deep end of that opinion pool
void of water. Maybe it’s just my wistful wishful thinking, but I hope you will always think of me, years from now, on the fray, with this
mindset that, you don’t avoid the cornerstore that always carries and keeps in stock that thing that you like.
DiDi Delgado – 1. Girl wonder. 2. Fat & Phat. 3. In the midst of a quarter life crisis. 4. Is also an anomaly – Conceited yet humble; I’m still searching for my niche in the world, life and in your heart. 5. Creator of DiDi-isms and DiDi-ness (according to my friends). Follow her blog Love and Labels.