Before I can stop myself,
my mouth opens and honey drips out.

It is sweet to me
but I know, somehow,
that it would sear the skin
of anyone that touched it.

It is thick and gooey enough
that I can chew it,
but it never stays inside
long enough for me to do so.

It is produced and packed and shipped
and drip-drip-drops out of my mouth
in a way that I can constantly hear,
like the ticking
of a clock that is only for me.

People walk by
and slip and slide and trip around me,
and sometimes get caught
in what they think
is my own sweetness.

They do not hear the dripping
or look around to see
what has glued them
to my side.

They do not know
that this honey coating everything I touch
is not me.
It is not my choice.

But it is there,
like a disease,
glazing every word
that I breathe out.