What have I swallowed

What have I swallowed.

Your syrupy smile and lines,

lining the halls of my heart.

Don’t post me up.

I am not a cookie. I am not a drink.

I am not a candy.

But even my mother slurred my name,

sweet like medicine

to ease the pain of difference.

What is my name?

Oreo, if you see me one way.

Coffee with creamer, if you touch my skin.

White chocolate, if it’s hard to breathe.

What is my name?

The one my father gave me.

Eat your own words.

Go on they sound sweet —

I feed myself now that I’m grown.

Because I was a child once.

I swallowed two identities and

left my plate empty.

Now I feed my children

with my own blood and bones.