Bitter honey drips from her half-open lips
Oh, she tries to flatten herself, hide herself, but
She twists inward till she flips inside out.
Splayed out, she flaunts her imperfections, like
Chipped asphalt meeting soles of feet.
In her desperation for an explanation, an excuse,
The honey grips her throat in bitter amber and
Tries to catch her thick pour of apologies, but
She paints her lips in shining strawberry molasses, and
Her beautiful words never slide past its surface.
Funny how it lets the apologies through, and
People don’t notice the other words hanging on her lips.
The glare of a million suns blinds all, I guess.
She spreads herself over herself evenly,
Separating the pulp from the syrup.
She tells herself that she’ll reveal the pulp when it matters, yet
The calendar for that was lost in the first postponement.
She buries the pulp deep,
Forgetting that pulp decomposes, and
Poetry can’t be translated into her new language.
Suffering quietly is better than inviting the honey up her throat, though,