When he called me sweetheart, I thought; how could he possibly know?
I listened, intently, for the sound of honeybees making their flight up my esophagus. Searched, meticulously, for ants and the trail that leads them home. 
And then this sweet heart of mine stops cold. Maybe he can see. Maybe they can all see. Maybe the decaying my organs has begun to radiate through my flesh. My bones, rotted from the inside, now audibly crack amid the loudest if conversations.  
My tongue, honeyed and saccharine, detaches from my mouth. Free to be used for once. 
Piece by piece, all of me in atrophy. At least they will say, she was so sweet.