Those lips,
Like two rose petals floating in a bowl of milk.
Or a smear of blood,
Spilled on new snow.
A kiss,
printed neatly on the collar of a white cotton shirt.

I paid for that shirt.
In the store I saw it
And with a pang of sweetness,
I paid for it.
Paid with money I had worked too hard for to waste on cotton shirts.
But, they were his favorite.

My mother always said that the bees went after me,
because I was too sweet.
Mother always warned me.
Bees are beautiful,
Jovially striped, with cellophane wings.
Colored and wrapped like little pieces of candy.
But bees sting.
And it hurts, and fills you with poison, and needles, and a burning red reminder of your mistake.

My gift,
Tagged with ruby lip paint that was much too strange to me,
And smelling faintly of cigarettes,
And perfume I could never afford.

This is what I deserve.
Too much sugar is bad for you.
No man will hold a hand,
Sticky with saccharin syrup,
Or kiss a pair lips,
Drizzled with honey.
No man would leave a ruby,
For a cube of sugar.

Sugar brings the bees,
Like my mother always said.
Bees went after me,
Because I was too sweet