SUGAR


You pick up a small blue packet that reads SUGAR in all caps and say Look It Has Your Name On It. I raid museums with my eyes looking for the perfect donkey to tattoo on your thigh. Your hands show your age when your face doesn’t, and the gas station ring with the Our Father we bought as a joke sits on the wrong finger. When we break up you say you remember the light blue hat I wore to the museum in Ohio when I was in the hospital. Your thigh is bare and I stop eating sugar.


L Scully (they/them) is a queer writer and double Capricorn currently based in Boston. They are the co-founder and prose editor at Stone of Madness Press. Find them in the ether @LRScully.

Categories: Essay

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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