the beekeeper.

the breakdown of senses.

First comes sound.
Sound: "vibrations that travel through the air or another medium and can be heard when they reach a person's or animal's ear; sound produced by continuous and regular vibrations, as opposed to noise."
From the moment we are born
Sound envelopes every breathtaking moment
From cries of joy
To cries of fear.
The sound of a glass vase shifting several feet against its will.
The sound of truck loads of crickets, singing their repetitive hums that remind the fragile of reality.
The sound of water washing over soft skin.
The sound of metal scraping against unscathed, tender surfaces.

You once told me in an angry voice
Scorning me for my inattentiveness
"Do you even hear the sound of my voice right now?"
But all I could hear was noise.

Second, touch.
Touch: "come so close to (an object) as to be or come into contact with it; handle in order to manipulate, alter, or otherwise affect, especially in an adverse way."
From the moment of birth, prodded by cold hands of doctors and odd surroundings.
From the moment of birth, fear envelopes us for we long to gain the warmth,
The touch,
Of a mother, holding us closely in contained chests.
But soon the mothers have to let go when we are old enough.
Some chose to before the time is up,
And some never did to begin with.
The touch of those hands,
I didn't want them there.
I never wanted them there.
The touch of that skin.
Theirs was great, his was scary.

I told him to stop, I did
But I can still feel him begging for my touch.

Then, sight.
Sight: "the faculty or power of seeing; a thing that one sees or that can be seen."
Opening innocent eyes,
Bright, blue
Never a cloud in sight nor rain to damper the days to come.
No chilly snowflakes drifting from above could possibly bring the atmosphere that nips at our eyes
Any colder.
The sight of pools, lined up one by one in rows that can only be labeled as Trauma.
The sight of a beloved being pushed away from the monster that lived under their bed and inside their heart.
The sight of great purple crescents dangling from hazel moons, failing to leave when the sun rises.
The sight of fast moving figures, some too far to reach and only speeding up.
The sight of dark linen sprinkled with velvety pinpricks of colour from the destructive nights of creativity.

He'd glare at me and relay loathing words I've already told myself.
He'd stare with eyes of lust into my very soul and make his way towards me.
She'd down shot after shot, replaying the same screaming songs.
He'd twitch, crazy-eyed, begging for more.
I don't like what I see.

Don't look at me that way...

Don't look at me that way.

Don't look at me that way!

Next, smell.
Smell: "the faculty or power of perceiving odors or scents by means of the organs in the nose."
That cigarette smoke breaks down caverns in my head,
My lungs,
My mouth.
The smell was never delightful, and I could catch it on every item you owned.
As for them, they had their own unique smell.
It was odd, but somehow I still long for it.
Fastforwarding to the smell of putrid acid seeping through waste bins that screamed hideously, "Take a whiff of your defeat!"
Your chewing tobacco, I always found that smell comforting.
Now the smell makes me want to shove every morsel of it into my throat and nose to stop my nagging need to breathe.

If there were a fragrance brand that sold your scent, I'd dowse every inch of my house in it.
I miss that smell.

And last, taste.
Taste: "the sensation of flavor perceived in the mouth and throat on contact with a substance."
I used to hate the taste of sweet things,
Their confection melting into my tongue and driving me batty.
Now I only taste sour words,
Bitter and painful to set in my mouth. They burn holes in my cheeks.
I could taste blood from nervous habits that I could not stop.
The bitter taste of paper strips,
Lovely trips that take me into outer space.
The taste of my skin in someone else's mouth,
The taste of salt pouring into that mouth from lakes with rickety dams
And the longing taste of their lips on mine
But I never did eat that apple destined for me,
I waited until it was forbidden.

"Get your tongue off of me, I'm not a piece of candy to suck on."
"I don't want a taste of that promise land, it's fake."
"Let me taste that truffle."

When I frame memories into senses,
And organize them into files,
I can see how linked one event is with another
Or why the downfall had to be so painful.

Even though I try to understand all of the meanings and words I, myself, say,
It doesn't make any sense.