Honey - Grace Cupp

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when poisoned words turn to poisoned thoughts that taste like honey on the tongue the longer they sit 

coating chapped lips in a golden death that is

oh, so sweet. 

I can’t remember a time I wasn’t afraid of bees 

and yet I do remember the first time I had honey on toast. 

I was more concerned with licking my chubby sticky fingers than I was with being told that 

I wasn’t actually a product of love.

But now that I think about it, that wasn’t actually the first time I’ve tasted honey 

because I had Honey Nut Cheerios the morning before my brother broke his wrist 

and I was jealous because he was doted on and I wanted to be loved by my mother like she loved my brother

I understand now that she could never love me 

like she loves my brother because I am not her daughter

and I never really liked Honey Nut Cheerios but he did

I get along best with my ex alcoholic uncle

he wasn’t born an accident but he became one

he remembers the first time he had honey on toast too

it was the morning after the priest molested him

before honey on toast turned into vodka in a soda can

I’ve never had vodka in a soda can because alcohol hurts my stomach more than my head

and priests hurt my head more than my stomach

preaching with their serpent’s tongues 

to placeholder mothers and accidental daughters of paradises with milk and honey