Cilan Beionc

We liked to call ourselves chefs-

squirting and swirling together

every condiment in the fridge

and crumbling Doritos into our ramen noodles

because no one was left

awake to tell us what not to do;

 

except for the time we were

too loud (by just a smidge)

because we were attempting

to mash a mango with a meat cleaver at 2 a.m.

Your parents weren't too pleased, to say the least.

We couldn't placate your mother

with our tropical cheesecake 

because she was on a diet- sheesh!

 

There was also the time

we concocted smoothies by moonlight.

We threw in a mix of things

that didn't seem to belong,

but with a little trust, it tasted right-

it was just like us.

 

The whir of the blender came in spasmodic spurts.

We tried to keep the volume level low,

but we started to laugh so hard it hurt.

Our finished product was a mushy glob of pink.

I'm surprised we could sip it through our straws.

It was made of frozen berries, peanut butter,

pound cake, and a banana, I think.

It was a glorious glass of flaws.

 

I still remember the time we burnt

the fudge we spent hours making.

I guess you could say we

"fudged up" (Ha Ha, what a joke).

We were beyond the point of breaking 

when an idea began to poke at our brains.

 

Niblets of corn and barbecue sauce

transformed our curdled chocolate into turds.

We giggled and knew we'd gone insane.

We simply were absurd!

 

When we weren't up to those shenanigans,

we were brewing pots of chai tea on the stove;

snorting the cinnamon and gnawing the cloves.

It was our bedtime beverage.

But once, we made a witches' brew,

adapting an adage we thought would help us sleep.

You taught me that "eye of newt"

is nothing but lavender as you stirred.

 

I started to sweep a spot

on the hard living room floor.

I jumped to the job

because your idea of cleaning

was to hide the dust under the rug,

and never deal with it anymore.

 

After many hours of obsessive compulsive labor, 

we would settle beneath our wafty canopy of sheets

held up (sort of) by wobbly kitchen chairs

and savor our strange soup that smelt of feet.

We muttered protective charms 

to protect our little fort.

We placed herbs under our pillows 

to give us vivid dreams.

We still came up a little short;

 

because it seems we lost our capacity for fun.

We lost the bond we shared.

We started keeping track of our calories

when we had nothing else to count on.

I'm sorry I thought you cared.

The sugar in the raw that we froze in Koolaid 

is just a piece of our eccentric past;

but I found the chunks in the freezer today,

still situated in their ice-tray.

 

Maybe sweetness was meant to last.

​

Bittersweet by an Anon