Imposter in a gingerbread house

I'm a little more than just trapped inside this gingerbread house, made of flour, butter, molasses, and aromatic spices.

While I could eat my way through and out, I remain. Sitting on gumdrops, showering myself with M&Ms, whipped by licorice ropes. I am an imposter. I belong on the naughty list.

Waiting for a man called Santa. But he will never come on his sleigh with a magic bag of stories, storing competence.

So I sit by the hearth, melting my marshmallow body bloating, just to die back without words, cursed to drive nothing out of my hearse—my mind died a long time ago.

When I fed it with lies: that I should never break the rules of what gained fame; that I should always choose to remain safe.

A story has a plot, and you should already know its name, but I don't. I could only wish for a kiss under the mistletoe. I will drive wagons back to a story already told. Goodbye, my love. See you on the other side.

A/N: I thought you should know everything to write a long-form story, but maybe, just maybe—I needed to know nothing to write a short-form one. Maybe it’s one and the same... Thank you so much for reading, my lovelies ♥️🤗🙏🏽🖤

Even at my lowest, I made a promise to a friend: Please buy her book. A promise must always be kept. Hi Sara 👋🏽