My mom says I don’t love myself because I love candy too much. And she’s right—I love sweets. I love Mazapanes, Pulparindos, Cachetadas, Pelonetas del Puesto de sabor a sandia. I also love all kinds of pan dulce like conchas and cuernitos. I am a panero, mom says. Bread, bread, bread, I eat too much bread. I love arroz con leche—warm, with some Ritz crackers used like spoons. I love helados de limón, de café, de cajeta. I love esquimales—milk-based popsicles (preferably strawberry or coconut or walnut flavor), coated in chocolate, dusted with peanuts and shredded coconut. My mom says I always reach for sweets but never for fruit. Mandarinas, plátanos, manzanas, uvas, mangos, duraznos, sandia. They sit in a fruit stand in the middle of the dining table, collecting dust. And if not fruit, then I could eat more of (but I don’t eat enough of) baby carrots, tomatoes, pepinos. Slice them up, add sal, limón, chile (Tapatío, Chamoy, Tajin, Pico de Gallo). I don’t love myself because I eat Duvalines, Rellerindos, Limón 7, Vero Elotes, Vero Manitas, Cucharas de tamarindo. Or maybe my mom says I don’t love myself because I eat less Mexican candy and more American candy. Hershey bars, Kit Kats, M&M’s (the yellow bag, the ones with peanuts inside), Skittles, Snickers, Twix. This is why I am losing my Spanish—I whitewash my tongue with all my gringo food. I love (too much) Famous Amos cookies, and don’t love (enough) galletas Marías. I choose Hostess Cupcakes when I could eat Pingüinos. Coca-cola instead of Coca-Cola de México. There is a difference. Or maybe when my mom says I don’t love myself because I eat too much candy, she means I don’t love myself because I am not sweet enough like candy. (It’s probably because of all that spicy Mexican candy I eat: Rebanaditas de Sandia con Chile, Pelon Pelo Ricos, Lucas Bomvasos.) If I were sweet, I would think with joy, with sugar. Or I don’t love myself because I am not like the feeling of eating candy. I am not a dance, a baile, a bachata, cumbia, duranguense on the tongue. I am not a pinch, a spoonful, a half a cup of light rivering down into the stomach where, I should know, the heart truly resides. Maybe I don’t love myself because there is no way my tongue and my stomach reject as much food as they do, and yet, mom says, I have no problem eating candy. How is that believable? It’s not believable. It’s not that my body hates me, it’s all just in my head. Always in my head, and there I go overthinking again—I need to be less like this and more like the brief sweetness of cheap bubblegum. Or maybe my mom says I don’t love myself because I love candy, yet I am not sweet to myself. Or not sweet enough. Or I haven’t always been sweet to myself. Or maybe my mom doesn’t know how sweet I am to myself because I don’t tell her as much about myself like I used to and that worries her, and that means I don’t love myself. Or (let’s reimagine):

My mom says I don’t love myself because I love candy too much. And she’s right—I love sweets. I love Mazapanes, Pulparindos, Cachetadas, Pelonetas del Puesto de sabor a sandia. I also love all kinds of pan dulce like conchas and cuernitos. I am a panero, mom says. Bread, bread, bread, I eat too much bread. I love arroz con leche—warm, with some Ritz crackers used like spoons. I love helados de limón, de café, de cajeta. I love esquimales—milk-based popsicles (preferably strawberry or coconut or walnut flavor), coated in chocolate, dusted with peanuts and shredded coconut. My mom says I always reach for sweets but never for fruit. Mandarinas, plátanos, manzanas, uvas, mangos, duraznos, sandia. They sit in a fruit stand in the middle of the dining table, collecting dust. And if not fruit, then I could eat more of (but I don’t eat enough of ) baby carrots, tomatoes, pepinos. Slice them up, add sal, limón, chile (Tapatío, Chamoy, Tajin, Pico de Gallo). I don’t love myself because I eat Duvalines, Rellerindos, Limón 7, Vero Elotes, Vero Manitas, Cucharas de tamarindo. Or maybe my mom says I don’t love myself because I eat less Mexican candy and more American candy. Hershey bars, Kit Kats, M&M’s (the yellow bag, the ones with peanuts inside), Skittles, Snickers, Twix. This is why I am losing my Spanish—I whitewash my tongue with all my gringo food. I love (too much) Famous Amos cookies, and don’t love (enough) galletas Marías. I choose Hostess Cupcakes when I could eat Pingüinos. Coca-Cola instead of Coca-Cola de México. There is a difference. Or maybe when my mom says I don’t love myself because I eat too much candy, she means I don’t love myself because I am not sweet enough like candy. (It’s probably because of all that spicy Mexican candy I eat: Rebanaditas de Sandia con Chile, Pelon Pelo Ricos, Lucas Bomvasos.) If I were sweet, I would think with joy, with sugar. Or I don’t love myself because I am not like the feeling of eating candy. I am not a dance, a baile, a bachata, cumbia, duranguense on the tongue. I am not a pinch, a spoonful, a half a cup of light rivering down into the stomach where, I should know, the heart truly resides. Maybe I don’t love myself because there is no way my tongue and my stomach reject as much food as they do, and yet, mom says, I have no problem eating candy. How is that believable? It’s not believable. It’s not that my body hates me, it’s all just in my head. Always in my head, and there I go overthinking again—I need to be less like this and more like the brief sweetness of cheap bubblegum. Or maybe my mom says I don’t love myself because I love candy, but I am not sweet to myself. Or not sweet enough. Or I haven’t always been sweet to myself. Or maybe my mom doesn’t know how sweet I am to myself because I don’t tell her as much about myself like I used to and that worries her, and that means I don’t love myself. Or (let’s reimagine):