Sweet Talk

By Caroline Crossland, TIWP Student

Dear Sweet Talk,

Let me rewind your brain just a little,
from the white tops of my lavender fingertips
and tell you a little story
about the golden trophy
who stands tall and wide with its cape and crown.
And I’m going to make it even more dazzling for you, my dear,
like the dainty sprinkles of those strawberry cupcakes:
Pick any name that comes to your mind.
It could be warm like Laurel,
it can be classic like Jack,
it could be unique like Meridian,
it could be strong like Bryan,
it could be soft like Caroline.

I know the baby blue feathers of vulnerability,
the lightness of the vowels and rhythm,
and the classical core beauty of the name
is your ultimate favorite. 

Let’s begin.

The golden figurine doesn’t have a mother or father,
its last name is nonexistent
like the golden maple rays
in the pastel indigo twilight sky.
Instead, it’s only birthed from a single hand,
hard and rough, the strong fingers are.
Every wrinkle and crevice starts to bleed
the thick, sharp expectations,
these high demands thump to the heart
which beats to the hymns of a bellowing voice:

“Be everything, not anything,” it hisses
while soothing the trophy’s arms
with its bitter lemon taste of evil
to its sweet melting chocolate of lust.

These hands then prepare for the making
and birth of the trophy.
Each finger has its own flavor to paint and draw
like the little colorful robots designing a new creature
with their strong, pointy, cherry red antenna.
The creature,
the figure of perfection,
the masterpiece.
They dream of this masterpiece
with their little, linear, jet black minds.
A dream that’s so exclusive
and yet everyone knows
except for this young, innocent trophy.

The trophy hasn’t opened its eyes yet,
the trophy hasn’t started to observe the world’s nooks and crannies yet,
the trophy hasn’t been exposed yet,
the trophy hasn’t had its first breath.
And sadly, this golden figurine never will be able to breathe,
for the heart only freezes under the bitter, frozen box
with the middle name of society. 

Do you want to apologize now, my darling?

The little fingertips continue to make this twilight shining princess,
each beep and kink goes off with their new shining color.
The next word of the list is checked off
with not just a check mark
but a star:

Smartness-beep!

Beauty-beep!

Cleanliness-beep!

Sexy-beep!

Manners-beep!

Quietness-beep!

Hourglass-beep!

Niceness-beep!

Submissiveness-beep!

Heart of the family-beep!

They all make a rainbow,
but authenticity’s colors
are never in the right order.

The trophy is finally made,
the golden sparkles walk out of the machinery
while its honeydew skin shines
with its cold metal and violet amethyst eyes.
This masterpiece in the iridescent mist
stands in place with its little dainty feet
always glued to the ground.

So perfect,
so dreamy,
so flawless,
a fairytale. 

But this fairytale comes true my dear,
every single day when a new teenager is born,
when a new female is born.

And now you finally make your way into the story.

You walk up to the trophy and grip it so hard
like the little girls playing
with their satin pink-dressed Barbie dolls.
You then plant a big web in the middle of its naval
in order to always keep it in place,
for the figurine to never move an inch.
The strings are thick, sticky, strong,
they are so unstoppable that
not even the strongest human on earth
can break through this web
and save the trophy.
Each of these blood thirsty threads
are tied to the world’s deep, penetrative black yin,
rather than the white yang.
But you didn’t just stop there dear,
oh no you didn’t.
You start to lecture the trophy with your sweet talk,
covering up society’s black licorice words,
sugar-coating every single shadow,
restriction, hardship, every single sour, stingy, lemon gummy bear
into a sweet sugar cherry cake. 

You look into its eyes,
scanning for any more of strength’s family members and distant relatives
within the vulnerable amethyst pupils.
You grin to see no more possible lashes and flares of originality,
for they have all dissipated into the cold, thick metal skin.

You continue to your last step,
the step that wraps the bow onto this cookie-cutter gift,
the step that makes you run from third base to complete the home run.

You hold a sharp silver needle containing this formula,
the light, blandless, creamy white liquid
that pierces the trophy’s heart
when you inject the shot into its shining chest.
This medicine then tortures, and yells at the trophy’s dreams,
heart, authenticity, and voice
telling everything the figure needs to do,
telling everything the figure can and cannot be.
The formula then swallows the trophy’s authentic voice
which screams for help,
for escape,
for originality.
But sadly this original light drowns under the numb, white sea
for the voice has lost the violent war
from the unbearable standards of the universe.

How dare you.

You made a masterpiece that is golden, yes,
but when you dig deeper with your silver metallic spoon:

It is only plastic. 

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