’sometimes of course I am hot’ I deliver these self-addressed messages with consistency of a mirror. It is day infinity of my cells wanting to be dead. I am hot shit, but to be with an open mouth at this party is to think of all the other bodies as he’s tongueing me down. Bodies that with enough osmosis will hopefully replace the make-up of my own. I think of my grandmother who, the reigning queen of wedding rings in kneaded dough, has always made me aware of the beautiful mysteries of my form. I think of herself in me, the years of cigarettes, coffee, and the lack of sunscreen. How she would glimpse in the mirror and recognise completion. How she would braid the surface of an apple pie and sugar me with her blessing. I’ve been made of sugar ever since.