Honey on the Wound

Honey on the Wound

You said the truth would sting at first—then sweeten where it should,

So lay it bare, then breathe it in: put honey on the wound.

No gauze of lies, no sugar coat to fake what we’ve been through;

Let tenderness be medicine, and sorrow do its due.

I washed the hurt in daylight’s sink, the salt of what I knew;

The skin recalled a thousand names that kindness never used.

I let the ache uncurl its fist, the bruise confess its blue—

then tipped a ribbon, slow and warm, and watched it learn to soothe.

It wasn’t cured by miracle, nor thunder, nor a swoon—

Just patience, drop by golden drop, like summer in a spoon.

The edges stopped their ragged hiss; the blood forgot to prove.

My pulse, unknotted by the past, found a gentler groove.

If love returns, it must arrive with bandage, balm, and room—

with honest hands that know the craft of tending what they wound.

No sealing lips that hide the scar, no promises too soon;

We’ll stitch with light, we’ll rest with care, and mend into our tune.

So here’s my vow: to meet the break with work that’s understood—

to bless the hurt for what it taught, not make it taste good;

to keep a jar for darker days, for brittleness and brood—

And every time the truth draws blood, put honey on the wound.