the candy landfill kid spends her time sifting through sweet nothings
in search of words that still mean something,
and on days when the sugar melts in pools around her feet,
she chases inkblot butterflies instead.

sometimes when only empty wrappers remain,
and all of the inkblot butterflies have flown away,
she watches popsicle sunrises melt into sticky sunsets
that stain the horizon with mango-banana flavor,
and she dreams about what it would be like to have more than this.

she wears the key to her heart on a chain around her neck
so that there's never a chance that someone might steal it,
because everyone wants the love of the candy landfill kid,
but she's only got so much love left to give.

she's learned that collecting treats can be a pesky thing,
that Halloween comes more than once a year to play its tricks.
she doesn't understand how something so empty can weigh so much,
or how the aftertaste can be so sour.

the candy landfill kid keeps her treasures in her pocket,
and with each find she learns to believe in miracles over and over again,
because life hasn't been kind, but it is starting to get better;
nothing hurts anymore when it's all been sugar-coated.