Milk, Honey & Cyanide

I. Bloodlines and Burdens

She was born of absence, 

so they filled her with expectation.

She was born of beginnings, 

so they made her live only in ends.

Centuries rewrote her;

from goddess to ghost to grievance,

each version revised

for men to swallow:

palatable, profitable, digestible.

She became a syllabus,

a slogan,

a superstition in silk.

Every divinity a premise,

every prayer a warning.

Between pedestal and partition

lay the woman;

neither saint nor sinner,

just a body mistranslated

into metaphor.

No one archived

the women who refused translation,

who ruled by silence,

measured mercy in teaspoons,

governed households

like republics

with invisible borders.

And in those rooms, 

where jars clinked like accusations,

threads strangled ceilings and floors,

mirrors waited for confessions, 

milk dripped from spouts of quiet menace,

honey glistened on knives well done, well hidden,

and the invisible butcher

took her first breath

with a whisper only she could hear

and a shadow that unmade the walls behind her.

II. Teacups and Daggers

There were women who didn’t need swords;

they had teacups,

threads,

the weight of expectation.

They carved sons with comparison,

daughters with guilt,

husbands with hunger.

They stitched families into factions,

fed feuds like pets,

loved like debt collectors —

forgiveness always arriving

in fine print

and hidden clauses.

They didn’t kill like murderers do;

they killed like seasons:

gradual, relentless,

until incidence hardened into inheritance.

The pantry smelled of control,

the kitchen echoed with judgement.

Love fermented in closed jars.

Milk soured into venom,

honey dripped down walls, sticky, slow,

threads crawled like insects across floors,

warmth sharpened into weapon,

and incense burned but could not hide the rot.

Every bite of bread,

every sip of tea,

every whispered lullaby

carried the weight of a blade

that hummed the names of your ancestors.

Where are their stories?

The empresses of emotional famine,

poisoners of peace,

who raised dynasties on obedience

and called it virtue.

You walked past them every day —

smiled, ate, folded laundry,

never knowing

which bite carried their mercy

and which their blade, 

never knowing

if the house was watching you back.

III. Mirrors of Silence

There’s a cycle written in smoke:

daughter-in-law devoured

becomes devourer,

victim rehearses vengeance

in mirrors

that applaud silently

and sometimes, crookedly, blink. 

Generations gutted in the name of order.

Sons turned into silence,

wives into wardens,

families partitioned like property deeds, 

threads of love sprouting thorns overnight.

Milk can kill,

honey can blind,

every blessing

if repeated enough,

becomes a curse

with good intentions,

and sometimes, a mirror leaks blood

while you sleep.

It waits in corners,

lurks in mirrors,

smiles while you sleep,

humming lullabies

you cannot remember

and nightmares you cannot escape,

your own hands replaying

the cruelties you inherited

in perfect, terrible loops.

We all inherit this.

You. Me. Someone.

IV. Halos and Shadows

We wrote legends of men

who killed for kingdoms,

but not of women

who killed for control.

We remembered queens who mourned,

not those who transformed mourning

into legacy.

Perhaps history isn’t biased,

perhaps it’s afraid.

Afraid to confess

that cruelty tastes sweeter

in a mother’s tongue.

Maybe the goddess was never divine, 

just better at hiding her sins.

Maybe the halo was never holy, 

just a sun tilted sideways

so it blinded only some.

And maybe,

just maybe,

it isn’t men alone who built thrones of bones,

but women

who made sitting on them comfortable, 

and sometimes, shifting.

Every empire needs a prayer,

and every prayer,

a woman willing to believe

she keeps it alive,

even when the walls whisper back,

even when the jars remember her name.

And you 

yes, you 

are standing in that empire,

breathing it in,

feeding it,

trembling beneath it,

or smiling as it feeds on you,

as the milk hisses, the honey pulses,

and the threads tick like a clock

you cannot stop.