Clare Meadows
In sight of sugar, I am a bug.
My teeth are pincers, slicing through what could only be a slab. My fingers grab for more,
more,
before my mind sees the platter before me, before my thoughts can catch me in their net.
By the time they have me, it’ll be too late.
I’ll watch from afar as the slab breaks, crumbles in my mouth. The bliss will linger on my taste buds, leaving me craving.
A human will scorn me. Unhealthy– unfit. Each bite is a betrayal, a personal attack, and we both know that the taste of blood lingers far longer than any bliss.
And yet, still I consume. It isn’t malice– it’s nature. Nature is cruel sometimes.
The human will say it’s gluttony. A never-ending feast, unhindered, aided by thrown-away scraps. They’ll hold me between their fingers, grimace at my flailing, and lock me in a cardboard box with holes poked into the top for air.
I’ll chew my way out eventually.
And then? Well, then…
I think I’ll go eat a bar of chocolate.