Syrup

by Paris Weslyn

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My words are venom.

I spit from my mouth a terrible poison.

Sorrow and pain linger on my breath.

I want my tongue to be sweet like honey

Elderberry syrup dripping down my throat,

But my tongue is forked.

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I hiss and send curses up into the heavens.

Ever warring, my words are bitter cold, a frost that burns.

Darkness settles over the land—a murkiness unending—

And I am afraid.

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I am scared I may never find which tree to hang myself from

To rest under its branches

To pause and find that eternal bliss

To unlock the mystery of how to speak life, tenderly

and have it burst forth off the tip of my...

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‘Let there be light,’ I whisper timidly.

‘Let there be light,’ I beg.