I count out those who I am truly myself around on my fingers,
I stop at three.
Sticky hot honey trickles down my palm... dribbles on my shirt...
Hand dipped in sweet uncomfortable feelings.
Shame curls and ligners.
Heart shares with all, but there\'s only one keeper.
I stare at the ceiling, and they all look back.
My fingers should spiral like thorns on a vine,
yet I cage myself safely within this ravine.
Brush against the cool stone and follow the curve of carved lines.
Each mistake. Every time.
When honey flows sickly from out of my mouth. Too bountiful. Too much.