You were my first love.

You came to me in a swirl of pink frosting and warm light, in the soft hush of grandma’s kitchen where cookies cooled on a wire rack.

You cradled me in your sugared arms and whispered promises:

“One bite, and all the hurt will dissolve. One taste, and you will be loved.”

You wore many faces.
A candy cane dangling from a winter tree.
A chocolate bar slipped into a lunchbox like a secret blessing.
A swirl of caramel in my milk, softening the bitterness of life.

You weren’t just sweetness.
You were sanctuary.
You were celebration.
You were the potion that turned scraped knees into gold stars, heartbreak into a high.

But you lied, Mother Sweet.

You were never content to be my occasional delight.

You crept into my bread, my sauces, my morning coffee.
You wore disguises — dextrose, maltodextrin, invert syrup — so I wouldn’t see your claws.

You didn’t just soothe me; you owned me.
You rewired my hunger and bent my will.
You taught my body to kneel before you, whispering your gospel to my neurons in fireworks and static.

And when I tried to leave, you punished me with trembling hands, hollow fatigue, and a longing so deep it felt like love.

But I know you now.

You’re not just a treat.
You’re a tyrant cloaked in velvet.

Your empire was built on ships and chains,
your sweetness extracted with blood.
You bribed scientists to silence your sins.
You taught whole nations to worship you,
to lace every ritual with your poison and call it joy.

Even now, as I write this, I feel you pulling at me.

You live in my memories —
the birthday candles, the ice cream trucks,
my mother’s laughter.

I’m not just craving you;
I’m craving the child who believed in you.

That’s what makes you dangerous.

You’re not a flavor.
You’re a spell.

But the spell is breaking.

I can’t love you anymore, Mother Sweet.
Not because I don’t want to — oh, I do —
but because you’ll never let me go gently.

To love you is to lose myself.

So I will leave you, even as your voice
drips like honey in my ear.

Even as my body weeps for your comfort.

Goodbye.

Once yours. No longer.