bumble bee

There is so much that still hurts in many parts. Some, I don't know how or why it does. And probably you feel the same too. Your frustrations, growing pain, trying to fit into shoes that are still painfully uncomfortable. It falls out, one way or another, flaming arrows, shield, dodge, darts and scarecrows, begging questions to
answers we both don't know, try as we might.

I have my unexplainable hunger and cancer. You have your aggressive instinct and banter.

For this has to be another one of those difficult mornings to get through and I am barely passing the storm. I know you don't mean to spill the hot soup all over me on the couch. I know the paws marks that sit clumsily on these delicate handles. But the burn is still real and I don't blame it on you.

If you poke me, do I not hurt? If you push me, does it not shove? If you set it off, do I not implode?

The smell of burning flesh still stinging my nose and little wonder that it started to actually bleed an hour into this headbang. I walked away in the cold, almost angry, almost dejected, almost abandoned. Somewhere under this hoodie, something out of the ordinary happened. I did not find the restroom door closing. I did not find crystal glands searing through my cheeks, though the pain was eating away at the edge
of my soul. Can this poison be the calm that cradles me from the elements?

Or maybe I just haven't hit home yet.