Honey​

​

Everyone called her Honey, for she was sculpted
in her namesake. So fluid she fit any palm, so light,
gravity barely registered; everyone loved her.

Obviously. A fountain of undemanding

sweetness
universally being the easiest

to love.

​

Her sky changed. Abruptly. So abruptly, its schizoid
eruptions ruined mercilessly her liquid luminescence;
her amber skin sliding off in grisly sleets despite
her manic attempts at keeping it on.

Her loyal patrons, disgusted, thinned to sepia
memory, their betrayal charring her remnant

flaky ruins.

​

Bereft of purpose, she shut her gold eyes to death,
opening them only in the afterlife, the caramelised

ghost of her past
sheathed
in new skin—
molten iron, flaming
red, hissing and ready to scald.