Candy Stars

I hold my secrets in the shape of stars,

constellation-clustered candy like flaming balls of gas.

Sometimes they have five points.

Sometimes six.

Always, they burn

in that space inside your head

where all your obscurities are kept,

sweet treasures ready-made like lollipops.

I’m selfish and greedy, so I’ll look inside

and pull them out

one

by

one.

Sugar decorates my tongue,

flecks my teeth like the wisps of cloud that we used to pull off sticks at the fair,

like strawberry hailstones in striped party bags.

Sometimes I eat your secrets.

Sometimes I let you hold mine.

And sometimes lemonade

drips from my eyes,

fizzing over my cheeks

when your thoughts turn sour like expired gumdrops

and I can’t find you anymore.