Shaken like a rug full of dust, I was moved by the murmur of your honey-filled words. They were sweet enough to attract the bees, and yet they crush my bones, so I had to make mosaics out of them. They crushed my teeth and scarred my skin so that I cannot do anything but collect all that damage and wear it like a diamond necklace. They intoxicate me—fill me with a venomous air that my blood freezes, even as it is hot like our August summers— even as I am warm-blooded. My skin, a tapestry of my ancestors, is traced with scars of honey-filled, poisonous, and sugar-glazed wounds of you. Words fill your mouth as if they were pomegranate molasses, and I should savor their sweetness, but I find them sour, instead. They send bullets to my skin, and I have no more air left— no more room left to scream. Instead, I wear my scars like a diamond necklace in the middle of a funeral, and yet you rip it off my neck and cr