Cherry Sours
silky choices, soft centers,
surprises wrapped in gold foil
like blessing after blessing
waiting to be unwrapped.
But me?
My life…
my life is more like a dollar-store pack
of cherry sours.
Yeah—
those bright red, round little lies
that look sweet at first glance,
glassed-over in sugar
like they came from a childhood dream.
You pick one up,
thinking finally—
this one’s gonna be good.
This one’s gonna melt sweet on the tongue,
go down easy,
be the kind of comfort
you don’t have to brace yourself for.
And the first one?
Oh, the first one never misses.
It hits you with that candy-coated promise—
that this time,
this moment,
this chapter
might actually be soft.
That maybe the world
has finally decided
to taste like kindness.
So you crave another.
Another little red candleball
to light up the dark
with sugar and hope.
But the next one?
That next bite?
It betrays you.
Sour.
Sharp.
Like a memory you thought you swallowed years ago
but it still burns
all the way down.
And isn’t that it?
Isn’t that the story?
Sweet, then sour.
Sour, then sweet.
A cycle of “maybe”
packaged in plastic so thin
you can see right through it
and still fall for it every time.
Some lives get chocolate.
I get cherry sours.
But let me tell you something—
I’ve learned to keep chewing.
I’ve learned that even the sour ones
wake up a part of me
that refuses to go numb.
They remind me I’m still here,
still tasting,
still daring the next bite
to be better than the last.
And sometimes—
and often—
that sweetness returns,
surprising the soul
like a kindness you didn’t expect
but needed.
So yeah—
my life is a dollar-store pack of cherry sours.
Cheap.
Predictably unpredictable.
But I’ve learned to savor it—
the whole chaotic handful—
because even when it stings,
even when it bites back,
it proves one thing:
I’m alive enough
to taste the difference
between what hurt me
and what is healing me.
And I’ll take that
over chocolate
any day.
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