Your bee-stung lips draw me in and their sweetness satisfies me –
but the taste of the sting of your tongue
is more than bitter.
As much as I love the wine of your kisses –
your words are hemlock.
Don’t love me then curse me,
don’t curse me then kiss me.
If you would make me yours, hold me close enough to not hurt me
without hurting you –
love us both enough not to hurt us both
just to hurt me.