I knew he was the one for me when I saw the beer ads flashing in his eyes.
He had a racist tattoo on his back and pissed off all my friends. I felt special when they said I could do better. You should have seen my cow eyes and tremble lip when I said “But I love him!”
I did. He was a series of granite protrusions that I could pour my simple syrup over. Gliding over and filling the cracks and crevices of his self-esteem. Only he would taste the poison bitters that lie under my sugar gloss. Together we would create an explosive poison that contaminates the very air around us. I would bait him into violence. Show the stigmata to the world because you never blame a victim. Never Ever. I have a Pitbull on a choke chain and all the Lifetime television for women ladies and 50 Shades of Grey book clubs gather around me.
When the game gets dull we can craft children from the union of slowly dissolving granite and poison sucrose. The children will be our hand grenades. We will lob them at neighbors and schools, staunchly defending the blast holes and blackened ruins they leave in their wake.
Eventually my clear candy will be blackened with soot and hardened with mineral. His granite worn into a dish that holds me. He moves in this circumference. Neighbors fear us and our children are vigilant when grown.
Our yard is a bed of poison flowers. Together we will harden into a small black marble, one of many, shooting through humanity and collapsing civilization.