the beekeeper.

six, eight, ten iii.

i looked for physical scars you left,
cut open and misshapen like canyons,
but i'm not sure of what i'm looking at.
is this how the bush is supposed to be beaten?
is this the way the peach is supposed to be cut?

i'm afraid that i'll be afraid of him because of you
or worse,
afraid of any person's touch,
even if i truly desire it.

you can joke about your lollipops and your fox tails.
you can plea that they are innocent.
you can try and convince me you didn't drug that muffin,
but i will still want to jump out of the moving car,
regardless of if you've changed or not.

if beverly marsh had a brother,
it'd surely be you.

A/N: this is my hundredth poem... yeet