We carry our fathers on our backs,
honey boys to their joys and violence,
absorbing their frustrations in memory
or dispersing their cries into indifferent winds.

Our hearts listen for the end of the cycle
powerless to the mind beating the rhythm anew
and the soul’s prayers for forgiveness
bounded in an eternal history of all tears.

Even Jesus felt betrayed by the father
and knew that peace only comes
with the last soft shuffle of dirt
and the new born son’s first scream.

hold my hand
touch the skin on my arms
and shoulders
let your irises dance between the stars in mine
venus sleeps under her tongue and in her throat
like grass blades under my thighs
narcotic eyelashes

scrape the surface of my lips
cut figure eights into our palms
dripping blood on rose confetti

tethered by a cruel fixation
a cold park bench
vulnerable and wanting
withdrawal

trace the space between my waist and hips
follow the scars on my knees and wrists
intoxicating movement

flesh out the needle burn my throat with the spoon
like honey
like a warm bath

the stars are fading now

Golden honey
Drip down my spine
Love me
Until your breath sweetens what’s left of mine

honey tumbled from her lips
her kisses dusted with powdered sugar
even the stars
Fell
at the softest of her silken sighs

I drip viscous honey from my lips
Soothing those who are broken

But when does the honey run out?
I feel as if manuka isn't always enough

When the hole inside of someone is all-consuming
When it cannot be filled

When a person fills the void with acrid bitter substances
Chasing the euphoria

We walk through life with honey dripping from our lips

I've had the money
I've had the power
But for you, honey
I couldn't even grow a flower

I've spread the vermin
Became a parasite
But for you, darling
I couldn't even set it all aside

if you land on a flower,
and you were a fluttering, beautiful butterfly,
i wonder if i could become a flower that gives you honey,
i wonder if i can bloom so beautifully that you don't cross over to another flower.

was a sticky mess dripping slowly
down the broken walls of
what we called home, and i

the ever so buzy bee who hover
to stare from a distance remain
as my gut twists of hunger

for the continued days
of work: measuring the rooms
that would strategically contain

our— my, remaining efforts
in keeping this symbiosis a force
enough to drive through

the blistering storms and past
what you thought was the drought.
but this, is the fallout

where the flowers cease to bloom
and the sun grows weary
to shine on leftovers

of what we called was home
as honey drips ever so slowly
into a painful mess to clean.