You concealed those knives of yours
Under the gingham tablecloth, perhaps?
And I concealed my fears, my anxieties,
Beneath the black exterior I wore.
I was, and you were,
I did not seek you, nor you me.
And so when you opened me up,
I expected you to fill my veins with honey,
Sweet, overflowing, golden,
A liquid shield of protection.
I would prefer an addiction to that gilded love
Than to the venomous sorrow
(Now running through those endless marble tunnels)
I have learned to crave.
- Mercedes McGrath