The Honey Bee Dies


Water stains from wet heads painted their pillows.
They never spoke a word, just honey pouring out the flower of her warm red lips.

He drank until his teeth went rotten,
Built a home with the honeycomb that grew from his breath in hers.

I shattered the stained glass on my back in the crease of their door,
I wanted to live off the sugar growing beneath their eyelids.

Live off the honey they started keeping in jars,
Jars they started keeping in cabinets,
Cabinets they started keeping under lock,
Locks they started chapping their lips from the chill of.

Honey runs out.

The sweetness of their tongues started hiding in closets,
Saving themselves for when the doorknob of fire felt better than the ice their walls became.

The sugar in the chocolate of her hair was being drained
to try and revive the ever growing vat of rotting honey in the attic.

I am starving.

His back was adorned with a hand carved armor made of guilt,
She spent six years whispering a dagger into a convoluted point.

She masked the blushing of his body with the shards of glass she saw herself in,
licked the blood clean before it hit the floor.

They are starving.

Seeping through the edges of her carefully painted picture frame,
The heat from her boozing blood made bitter their honey.

I wanted to rebuild the colony beneath their chests,
But he plucked all of the flowers before she burned their home with an open door.

We cannot move.

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