A bottle of thin blood,

Shelved in the front row,

Of the rustic shelf

In a happy home.


Watching birthdays, reunions,

Promotions and good-byes,

Celebrations with peals of laughter

And tears of joy, or hurt.


My name is mentioned,

I’m asked for-

Only in a whisper,

And my age talked about.


Like a secret princess

Housing the castle,

Stories of my legacy

Muttered under their breaths.


I yearn to be poured out,

Be sipped and marveled at.

For my taste to linger on

The lips and mouth I get to touch.


In this bottle, I’m contained,

Like a virgin,

Unsure of the warmth of men,

Or the way I titillate their senses.


I could be the wings

To the one who takes me in.

I could be the thoughts,

For those who would allow me.


My hope to fly flickers meekly

Until the dawn breaks in

When tea is asked for,

And I’m entirely forgotten.


As I take a whiff

Of my own scent,

It has grown stronger than

The last time I remember.