the beekeeper.

careless.

giving myself bruises
and throwing myself into the terrifying maw
of a nasty paper shredder
all because you upset me.

it's a twisted way to release my anger
punish myself for things you've done to me
like "if you can't burn them,
burn yourself."
"if you can't stab them,
stab yourself."
"if you can't hit them,
hit yourself."
"it has to come out someway or another."

my legs are blackened by my own carelessness:
jumping onto the porch by the side
so i can purposefully bang my shins up on the boards,
climbing up machinery to hurt my hands
and scrape my limbs,
holding the lighter a little too long for the candle
so the flame shifts its direction and attacks my thumb
like some thick,
gummy wick.

i like to watch my blood.
i like to feel the sting,
to think as it rolls down,
"i can feel."
for the first time in a long time,
i can actually feel.

one day i'll break my leg on the porch
or on the tractor
or the side by side.

one day i'll listen to the voice in the back of my head that says,
"JERK THE WHEEL TO THE SIDE!
FEEL THE TREES EMBRACE YOU AND THE CART!
FEEL THE METAL IMPALE YOUR ORGANS!
FEEL!
FEEL!
FEEL!"

or i'll set my whole body on fire.

one of these days, i'll be too careless to care about living.