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They start thick— 
not the polite kind you stir into tea
not the mild drizzle on breakfast toast
but the kind that runs hot
slow
dangerous 
coating your tongue before you grasp
the price of its pleasure.

They start golden— 
dripping off the comb 
sun pressed into their marrow 
too rich, too syrupy— 
gumming up the gears of your schemes 
too luminous for hands that flinch from light
too wild for walls meant to contain them.

You want squeeze-bottle love. 
Clean. 
No bees. 
No stingers. 
No buzz.

But they ferment in kitchens
where no one thanks them—
same way their grandmothers did
spooning fire into each serving
stinging their own tongues
just to stay sharp— 
drizzling down your better judgment staining 
Sunday shirts 
unraveling wedding vows
spilling past boundaries 
no one asked them to obey.

They get called— 
too much.
too loud.
too open.
too shut— 
like they were born to fit into your grip
instead of slipping right through it.

You try to jar them. 
Slap on barcodes: 
Best before. 
Handle with care. 
Discount if damaged 
for quick sale.

But wild honey won’t kneel— 
it contradicts logic 
defies preservation 
reason 
perfumes the air
wrecks your thirst for tradition.

You mistook raw for reckless 
Reckless for ruin 
Ruin for something to fear.

You laughed when they wept— 
like grief was a spectacle
like tenderness was weak
like softness 
was a defect to be filtered out.

But by the time you realize 
she’s the rarest thing
you ever tasted— 
she’s already sweetening 
the hands that never swatted her

And now, 
we sit here— 
jars without lids, 
spoons still sticky— 
trying to remember 
what it meant to taste something 
that never begged to be caged.

Maybe— 
the glass wasn’t meant to hold her.

Maybe—

it was meant to shatter—

to let something wild 
and feral 
flood in 
and leave you 
pleading 
for ruin.

—it’s a reckoning, 
unapologetic, 
untamed, 

final.
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