Steeping

Increasingly strong, concentrated, murky, bitter. One of us always tugging at the string, or squeezing our fingers tightly against the shear cloth. The bag tears open, burst with ill intent. You, make a run for it, take the honey along with you, hoping I do the same, knowing that I wouldn't. I taste sharp, harsh flavors of petals, leaves, sticks, inedible things. I choke on the edges, the pungent thickness now messy. I am frightened that others will see the proof of what I've done, every time I open my mouth.