OJ

I brought you a glass of orange juice
Sweetness, sweetness in a cup I would say,
So you could drink it up

I smiled in the kitchen mashing away
A little army of pulp
You would think a genocide of blushing fruit
The sticky blood running down my arms
All to see you smile when I presented you with my gift

Creep up the stairs
with the glass peeking out from the rim
On a open flower
No king had such a gift
But you are asleep

And it's only a gift
A promise, a secret,
A flattery, a lie.

An open hand holding nothing
But the turning of such sweetness
That should have rotted on the vine