Like honey, his words, sweet and gooey,
dripped from his lips as bait,
lured me in with each kiss, each whisper.
I ran from my nest, shards of a broken family,
his open door became home, though I never found the key
when he locked it behind me.
Showers of flower petals, shadows from candles lit,
perfuming my world with promises.
Bound to him, I followed
that dreamy scent of happiness trailing after him.
“We are meant for each other,” he murmured.
Soon, kisses turned to bruises,
heat became inferno.
He called me sweet things,
like honey, sweetie, or babe,
or bitch, or whore, or good-for-nothing.
His hand over my mouth,
I clawed my way from his grasp,
later met by, “I love you,” and, “You’re not sexy when you fight me.”
Like honey, I could never scrape him from my skin,
my fingers, my hips, my breasts.
I showered off each fight, every sting, and still believed,
this is my fault. I should do better. I should be sweeter.
When he left, his candied words subdued another girl.
I became the empty nest I swore to escape.
Memories twisted like sweaty sheets between nightmares,
each delicious word clung, reminders of who he was before.
His aftertaste lingered.
Some nights, I catch his scent on my pillow.
I have no sweet tooth.
He can keep every sugary, addicting promise.
They all taste the same to me.
Nichelle Taylor is a senior at the University of Northern Colorado majoring in Anthropology with minors in German and Writing. She spends her free time writing Young Adult Fantasy Novels, short stories, and poetry, reading any book she can get her hands on, and bullet-journaling. If you would like to see more of her work, please visit www.nichelletaylor.com.