Women are like Wild Honey

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.