I carry around a lot of weight in my life.
I lull it and lug it to every new place,
Every new job, every new person.
They never cradle it the way I want them to.
I hold a sour taste in my mouth,
Citrus-soaked, bottle-capped cola.
The kind that makes lips pucker
Because of untapped bitterness.
In first grade, I receive an enthusiasm award
And I hang it on the wall of my room.
It sleeps below glowing plastic stars
And reminds me how much I love winning.
I grow accustomed to this flavor.
A little like lemonade,
A little like honey.
Most likely to, First place,
Certificate of merit.
Blue ribbon, Excellency,
Presidential.
I think a lot about how we take things
From their purest forms
And mold them to our liking—
Our preferred flavors.
We use juicers to tear fruit from flesh,
To make something perfect out of it.
A little more sweet, a little less bitter.
Award-worthy, even.
