Sugar

I always feel a little self-conscious

spooning sugar into my coffee.

I glance sideways,

And hope nobody sees.

A hipster from Liverpool once told me

real coffee lovers drink it black.

So I did. For a while.


It’s not bad. Just much better with sugar.

But I put sugar in too many things.

Sugar in books I don’t like but should.


Sugar in what I thought about that

director’s last movie. 

When my parents ask about a job 

someone else took, I add sugar to that too.


Not to mention recent job vacancies.

Sugar in what I tell my friends
I did with that boy —


because the bitterness is too much, even for me.

Sugar in how many times I went to the gym.

In the size of my waist, my arms, my hips. 

Sugar in where I say I went to school,


not to scare anyone.


Sugar in my political beliefs,


for that same reason.

Sugar in my list of accomplishments; otherwise, 

there’d be close to none.


Sugar in my voice

as I ask my friend to stop doing drugs.

Sugar in my coffee


seems like the most innocent one.

Still, I think about it the most. 

Not a real coffee lover, I repeat to myself. 

Not a real anything.