Created in collaboration with Erin Blamire
I used to eat spoonfuls of honey - steal it from the kitchen cupboard, tip toe back to the living room, feel it melting on my tongue. Or I’d have it in tea, too much, a hot thick liquid that coated my mouth and rotted my teeth. When I could, I would squeeze it onto my finger, watching the way it danced as it landed, curling circles and twists, the entertainment before the meal, on a stage, dripping.
It contaminates every surface; drips on the outside of the pot, thick rings on countertops, sticky skin between fingers. You’ll put it away and the next day you pick it up, ready for breakfast, you pick it up and feel the stickiness left from the day before. You pick it up and it sticks to the cupboard, you watch the gold on the particleboard shelf stretch out for the jar until it snaps and it’s yours again. When you put it away it’s still on your palm. Do you run it under the tap or do you lick it of? Cold shower or the taste of skin, the taste of skin and honey.