I live on my own little planet. It’s not blue or green. It’s not red or white. It doesn’t have a sky and it never, ever rains. No, there is no snow and the buildings are made of jelly.
I live in a grape igloo where I blow bubbles of rice and play with stern sugar mice. My only companions are pink unicorns with edible voices. Some are crunchy like apples and others soft like overripe bananas. We sing every night under the stars that turn to butterscotch when they fall from the sky. The music we make melts in our mouths and sustains us. Even though we don’t sleep, we wash our faces with toothpaste every night before bathing in rivers of milk and drying off in the cotton candy mountains.
Sometimes my mother comes to visit. She plants kittens in concentric circles around the fireplace. A few months later, we release them into the jungle where a wise ant teaches them how to fly. Tinkerbell takes them away.
When they fairies come, they don’t want to leave. They build warehouses and store teeth in them. I deport them because the jinns follow them and try to steal their dust. The jinns are hot; they are made of fire. Their footsteps make the chocolate earth melt. They are not welcome and my unicorns have to chase them away by singing in icy voices.
On holy days, we watch the godly with great joy. They all wake up early and dress in white. They spread white sheets in the gardens and sniff each others butts. I tolerate them and let them stay as long as they don’t sacrifice my unicorns or steal my butterscotch. They realise that my planet is not a democracy. My planet is only me.