Buns

Buns

Yellow like the corn,

Toasted a pale leaf brown at its edges,

Sprinkled with white grains of sugar,

Doused in thick rouge cherry sauce,

The buns grandma made,

“Made with love,”

She cooed.

And loved by all,

Except me.

The baked bread of the bun,

Felt rough,

Like sand on my tongue.

Harshly,

Bitter charcoal and bland corn,

Clashed,

On my tastebuds.

The sweetness of sugar,

Gag-inducing,

Only made things worse.

The cherry sauce,

So bitter my lips shriveled like raisins,

So sticky that it glued my teeth shut,

I never enjoyed them in childhood.

Grandma died,

Alone,

Choked on a steaming hot bun,

Found smiling,

“Found with her throat charred to soot,”

Family claims.

Now?

Now, I make the buns,

The taste still sickens me.

Undigested yellow mush,

Acid liquified syrup,

Sits in a soup of toilet water and bile.

I hate those buns,

But the family loves them,

And I love grandma.