Honey Bee Sting
I’ll be better prepared this time.
… isn’t that such a sad thing to say?
"I'll be better
prepared this time."
For that inevitable heart break.
That living, breathing, habitual emptiness.
I hope to avoid that ache in my chest;
the tingling blaze that sets on the skin of my skull,
radiating into my throat.
When the fluttering fingertips of hope graze my soul,
I pray I’m able to break them.
To rip the nails from their bed, to peel the flesh from their bones.
Despite the strength these hands are able to muster in stillness-
they stay shaking all the same.
"I'll be better prepared this time."
To boil over, neglected on this back-burner.
It was something I could have lived with,
it would have kept me warm.
When your hands search for me, slow, and steady, and soft on my sides-
like that September night- I swear to sever them.
Simply so I can avoid this anguish.
The heat spreads across my skin,
my cavernous heart echos.
I only hear your name.
So much time wasted on being kind
my mouth so full of love for you, I needed nothing else.
Now I’m drowning on resentment.
I’ll never be better prepared
for you to squash me like a bug.
My exoskeleton crunches all the same under the weight of your palm.
I am absolutely, wretchedly in love with you-
but I do not want to take hold of a hand that doesn’t even reach for me.
I’ve been swallowing saltwater
to give a reason to the sickness in my stomach.
I’m insufferably empty, insufferably tired. I wish so badly for something soft.
I’ll be better prepared this time…
-L
