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.

What a travesty it is
To have luscious honey
Dripping from your lips
Only to never know
How sweet it tastes

Does memory deserve such a platter?
Cellophane instead of silver, but still
An impressive tower.

Such weight it bears—
Exhibit of blue curiosities
Resting on shoulders,

Original honeycombs.
The honeyeater feasts
On what has made a meal of me.

Grand rooms echo with silence.
Love turned to hate
So often without comment.

A history of broken hearts lies beneath
Street level. Away from sun’s glare
I buried them.

It is a tomb I walk in, tour guide
To myself. It is an ossuary hidden deep
Underground. It is the Catacombs of Paris.

Here moldering in the dark repose
A stack of secret skulls and bones—
Those gleeful arsonists.

In the end, even they succumbed
To the fires they set,
Burning down chapels without regret.

The city rumbles overhead, oblivious.
Everyone is absorbed with their own busyness.
No one pauses to wonder outside the still museum.

The cool façade belies the treasures hidden within.
They forget the history we share.
No visitor ascends the stair.

Inside, all is quiet.
The sole curator walks among the artifacts—
The rare objects, a Gordian knot,

The personas we once wore:
The naked emperor, the femme fatale,
The honeycunt.

I feel like vomiting each time we speak,
because I always have to put up a show.

I am more than the surface of my skin,
and the honey pouring from my mouth.

You cannot say otherwise,
for I find a home in me,
and you cannot bring my doors down.