Milk, Honey, Blood
I.
How long had we been almost sisters before you
started to consider me a tapeworm, tunneling
through the stomas in your bones? Like whack-a-mole,
I’d pop my head up in hello, escape to another hole
before you could smack me down with your palm.
They’ve been all filled; you finally got me out.
But since you’ve pushed me into that role, I liked
you better weak. I liked it better when your pinky
nail fell off after you slammed your fingers in the door.
After all, what parasite can feed on something pure?
II.
You took your tea with three
sugars. This is how you let me in,
through your mouth. I clung to your teeth
creating accidental cavities so deep.
I used your enamel as my blanket,
drifting off to molar sleep. I dreaded dentist
visits. He’d part your lips to inspect the damage,
speak as if I’d given you a black eye.
I’d defend myself. You were never beat.
My only fault was being too sticky sweet.
III.
Now you’re the one taking amusement
park rides through my veins; I feel your fear
of heights. I unzipped my wrists
for your attention, not the morgue. The doctor who stitched
me must have been new; he trapped you in my wounds.
I realized how you felt, to have feet
tread over your spleen, losing dreams.
I would have apologized, but you kicked me out.
Being red, salt, and sour leaves no room for sorry or sorrow.
We’ll always live one inside the other. Soon you’ll scale
my ribcage, trying to reach the way out. When you lose
your grip and land in my bile, I’ll pretend not to smile.
How long had we been almost sisters before you
started to consider me a tapeworm, tunneling
through the stomas in your bones? Like whack-a-mole,
I’d pop my head up in hello, escape to another hole
before you could smack me down with your palm.
They’ve been all filled; you finally got me out.
But since you’ve pushed me into that role, I liked
you better weak. I liked it better when your pinky
nail fell off after you slammed your fingers in the door.
After all, what parasite can feed on something pure?
II.
You took your tea with three
sugars. This is how you let me in,
through your mouth. I clung to your teeth
creating accidental cavities so deep.
I used your enamel as my blanket,
drifting off to molar sleep. I dreaded dentist
visits. He’d part your lips to inspect the damage,
speak as if I’d given you a black eye.
I’d defend myself. You were never beat.
My only fault was being too sticky sweet.
III.
Now you’re the one taking amusement
park rides through my veins; I feel your fear
of heights. I unzipped my wrists
for your attention, not the morgue. The doctor who stitched
me must have been new; he trapped you in my wounds.
I realized how you felt, to have feet
tread over your spleen, losing dreams.
I would have apologized, but you kicked me out.
Being red, salt, and sour leaves no room for sorry or sorrow.
We’ll always live one inside the other. Soon you’ll scale
my ribcage, trying to reach the way out. When you lose
your grip and land in my bile, I’ll pretend not to smile.
Trina Young is a poet in Chicago. She has been published in Afterimage Online's Inklight Gallery, Superstition Review, Burning House Press, Rhythm & Bones Lit's Dark Marrow, Kristin Garth's Pink Plastic House, and placed third as a Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Award Winner in the Illinois Emerging Writers Competition. Her writing themes often include mental illness, marginalization, and the absurdity of life. She can be found defiantly tweeting about depression and whatever else she feels like @tcyghoul.