Extra Sugar, Please

By: Ariana Rahman

The donut shop glows like a promise,
fluorescent lights buzzing in the dawn.
I step in, hands cold, dreams half-baked,
nose first into the warmth of butter and yeast.

Behind the counter, a kid with blue hair
spins a glazed ring on her finger.
“You want sprinkles or regrets?” she asks,
like they’re the same thing.

“Both,” I say, and she nods.
Drops a rainbow-covered miracle into my bag,
pours coffee darker than my past mistakes.
I take it black, because some lessons stick.

First sip. Too hot. Burns my tongue.
Second sip. Still hot, but I taste it now—
the slow unfurl of something bitter,
a little too real, but waking me up all the same.

Outside, the world is still deciding
whether to be golden or gray.
Powdered sugar clings to my fingers
like stardust from a morning well spent.