I looked inside your heart that day,

and saw your stone fruit.

It barely pumps, a shriveled dead

thing that gushes cyanide instead

of blood. When sugar and ice

gilded my veins. When saccharine

words poured down

my aching throat like chemical –

X… I should have known

that peaches disguise dead

things. Like worms sucking

on fibrous flesh with fuzz.

A tune without words.

A caged bird trapped inside

a prison made of his own

misgivings. I hope those worms

metamorphose. That butterflies

made of sugar spice & everything

nice will glide free of your aching

spine. And someday you will

be free of your prison made

of honey & cyanide.