the beekeeper.

sweet teen.

it's funny how the past few stanzas and lines have been soaked with your presence,
like your voice can somehow be manufactured into the ink i feed my typewriter.

i was slow to realize that my genre shifted from horror to romance
and i'm not sure how i feel about it.
i know that it's cliché.
i hate rereading my works and smelling the paint and breathing in your impact.

i feel like such a teenager.

like a lovesick teenager,
an adolescent engulfed by a boy's movement and words.
it's like morphine through my veins,
pumping through every inch of my body and telling my brain:
"oh, baby, you're a fuckin' snack. show it."
the euphoria,
the high.
it's a beautiful thing,
but it's so invalidated by my age and by my past
because, boy, do i have a history.
it's plagued with fear of commitment and longing,
ridden with temptation and blindness and misguidance,
blackened with self-hate and prescriptions,
but you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?

you want to be a pharmacist.
describe to me exactly what your pill does to me.

i know i spill love poems all over your name
and i know they stick to it like honey,
but i truly am just a moody, lovesick teen
and i can't help but whisper your name when i hear the spring bees waking up from their hibernation.