the beekeeper.

his disappointment.

her pain upsets you to the point of tears:
the drugs,
the sex,
the internal suffering.
you weep for everything that hurts in her
and you weep in fear for her future.

you tell me how great i am,
how well-spoken,
understanding,
and open.

oh if you only knew the things i've done to myself,
you would weep for me too.
i don't want you to cry
so this disgusting section of me,
my drugs,
my marks,
my filth,
it'll all be packed away in a neat little gift box
that is labeled with the name tag:

"DON'T OPEN UNTIL NEVER"

you don't need to know that about me.
it'll only make you sadder.
it'll only turn your pain and frustration towards me,
and soon you'll be singing,
"i'll help dig you out,
you have to help, too.
dig, man,
dig!"
but i'm lodged,
welded into this stationary agony.

i'm sorry.
i'm so disappointing.