Please Be My Sugar Daddy

God, my friend bartered with you,
wanted to get a small cola,
told you she didn't have to have
a twenty ounce. Said you told her
she had a doctor's visit hours later,
that test results then would lie.
She whined, angry, told you then,
"Well, zap this congestion then!"
And you did. I talked to her a day later,
she said her sinuses, her blockage – clear.
God, I believe. Help my unbelief. 
Colas don't call me, nor do chips, popcorn...
most junk food I'm okay, can take or leave.
But the sugar. Oh, the sugar. My downfall.
But you can help me, like you helped her.
God, would you please be my sugar daddy
and fix me when I would yield?
Can you talk me out of foolish notions
that getting an apple fritter
will fill the time before I need to go somewhere?
That eating that sweet left, forgotten,
abandoned in my kitchen by those who wanted it
is not really a better option that tossing it?
That nothing tastes as good as abstinence feels?
Would you be my sugar daddy, please?