Sweet like Splenda

She turns and smiles at me
And I think out loud, "You're sweet like splenda"
A slap in the face is a rude response and in haste I try to justify, "Wait, no I mean you're better for me, healthier, 600 times sweeter than sugar and ..." then it occurs to me. This was no Freudian slip, no this was a Freudian gown and everything I meant to say has been said.

She is sweet like splenda. She's a substitute for something I love, over-processed, and soon to be rejected by my body. She's encouraged by doctors as good for my health, and corporations get wealthy off of her popularity. She's everywhere I go- my coffee shop, bookstore café, and even on the table of upscale restaurants, she follows me. Cheerful yellow packets announce their presence and I can't help but think, this is just not right. When did I get so concerned with impressions that I let myself accept the substitute for joy because it appeared better? I don't know the answer, but as she accepts my apology I absentmindedly reach for the sugar and receive another slap in the face.