The first thing I noticed was the honey on the roof of her mouth.

It tasted like the honey my mom drowned my chamomile tea in whenever I was sick.

It was hot, not the tea, but the kiss.

My throat burning, my forehead heating, my eyes dropping

Lower and lower.

She was the eye of the storm, peaceful like that silent moment before ALL THE SILVERWARE JUMPED FROM THE CABNETS and ALL THE FINE CHINA HAD FALLEN AND SHATTERED AND- there was blood on her lips.

I was no vampire but god, it was the only lipstick I’d want smeared on my own.

Although, when her nose started bleeding, I got angry, boiling like the tea kettle my mother would forget about.

‘It’s okay, don’t worry dear.’ I would say to her,

or whatever name kept the mood.

‘How dare you! How the FUCK DARE YOU?”

I would scream to her body.

How dare her own blood stain her pretty skin, clear like her soul, dark like her skin.

My head churned like an angry butter maker the moment I heard the small tapping from a leaking pipe two doors down, her cramped, stain glass tiled bathroom.

It was almost like the tapping was a reminder of my sinning.

One tap, “stop.”

Two tap, “stop.”

Three tap, “you’re going to hell.”

I was fearfully angry, my breath growing heavy and labored, not from the kiss, but from the leaking pipes.

Hell wouldn’t burn or be as scalding as the chamomile tea my mother would pour for me.