teaspoon?
spoonfuls of honey. teaspoons one after the other, sunlight meant to be transferred to the veins to the heart.
my mother tells me honey is a natural antidepressant. my mother tells me to try taking a teaspoon every morning.
it is chokingly sweet.
by my tenth teaspoon of the morning i fear i am going to throw it up. i swallow my nausea, swallow the teeth that keep falling out of my head and reach for an eleventh.
if i could, i would drown in it, let it full my nostrils, let it fill my lungs, let it permeate me to the marrow.
i should take the twelfth teaspoon to my sternum and scoop out my lungs, scoop out the bad and replace it with gold. love me. love me. love me.
the honey is too sweet for my tongue and weighs me down. i do not know how to be happy, she tells me. i will take another spoonful.
when my autopsy is preformed, instead of red seeping out, there will be gold, viscous and radiant and warm.