Buzz. Buzz.

I've never written a poem before, but rip it up by all means....

There is a bee in my pocket.

Buzz. Buzz.

I dread this buzz (but long for it).

Buzz. Buzz.

I pull it out roughly,

Press it's belly

And it is silenced.

I drop it quickly, it's warmth

An unbearable torture (but also a heartaching comfort).

Buzz. Buzz.

The small, but white-hot heat sears my thigh once more

Thawing (but making me feel more alive than ever).

I produce the bee once more.

I am melting before it.

I cannot bear to hold it.

But neither can throw it away.



He is silenced once more.

I could crush him. I could lock him away.

He returns to his spot.

Buzz. Buzz.

The End

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