a deconstruction of honey & candles & church

My mother taught me lessons in honey.

Imagine age five:                    she smeared it across my bare

back and told me to lay in the middle of a flowering field.

Burrs painted patterns of pink across marred skin, grass itched,

and I wondered what it would be like to sink into the

ground, absorbed and melting like the last candle on an altar. She

used to take me to church when I was younger, but I was never

chosen to light those sacred wicks as prayers hung low in the air

            like steam—it was always the priest’s daughter, and I

never understood why. We stopped going a year before, and I

missed those lines pews and stained-glass windows.

She made me lay there for hours until cutting canyons of ants

crawled up by back, attracted to the saccharine sweetness,

and they left their crimson bites behind.

if you attract men to you

my mother said

all they’ll cause is harm.

Imagine age twelve:                the cusp of teenage years, and it

doesn’t yet feel like a movie. I lost the knobby knees but

gained new awkwardness in my movements; lost the chubby cheeks but

gained weight elsewhere. Instead of honey sweetening my foods,

she replaced it with artificial creations: sweet ‘n low, truvia, splenda,

stevia, equal. Zero-calorie powders that never tasted ripe enough,

but she threw away all the honey, said my clothes were too tight and I

needed to maintain my figure. She pinched at my sides, weighed

and prodded Sunday mornings, calculated calories for the week. My tastebuds

            never adapted, they yearned for confection and love, and I dreamt of

caramel chocolate and hugs, but she gave me diets and cleanses. Workouts

            and routines, and the fat began to melt away and I thought back to

those alter candles, wishing my entire body would dissolve with the fat.

your body is a weapon

my mother said

learn how to use it.

Imagine age eighteen:             legal adult by name only, neither comfort

            nor ability. I still called my ex boyfriend every time I ran a load

of laundry, still looked up tutorials every time I tried to cook. She came

            to my room as I zipped the final bags, my new life across the

country contained. College: what a strange place to go. I had never been

            without her for more than a night. A flickering match lit up her

grave expression and she pressed the flame to the center of my palm. It

            was the same match from those old church days, the ones the

daughters breathed into candles, and as I cried out and a wound bloomed,

            I wondered if the girls ever burned themselves on accident. If they prayed

for healing or if that was too selfish of a need. She handed me a bottle

            of honey to pack and said it would soothe the burn better than

any medicine. I didn’t pray as she left but I ducked my head and

            imaged the words pouring out of my mouth, thick like honey.

hurt yourself enough times

my mother said

any no one else can cause lasting damage. 

first appeared in Kalopsia Literary Journal (June 2021)

By Natalie Hampton