cookies and milk

if i were a writer

i would say

i'm sick of people

writing poems about me.

they've painted a picture of me

in their head,

and now i must fulfill it

until i am dead.

haunted by an immortal dread,

i binge on sweets to quell the urge

cheeks red with the impact of the purge.

i have to eat until i'm blue

because that's what your poems say i do.

and when my stomach can no longer handle

the burden

i'll vomit until my cheeks and nose

are red as roses

because that's what your poems

want me to be.

and i'll walk out

of the bathroom

with a smile

and a jolly laugh

(stomach shaking

like a bowl

full of jelly)

because santa

isn't allowed

to be sad.

***

i wake up

on christmas morning

to see

that santa left a note for me

next to uneaten cookies and a full glass of milk.

maybe next year

just make me

a salad.